morrows shall be as to-day," meaning
equally gloomy. Young singers, loving this line, take care to
pronounce the words with unusual distinctness: the listener may
feel that the performer has the capacity for great and consistent
suffering. It is not, of course, that youth loves unhappiness, but
the appearance of it, its supposed picturesqueness. Youth runs
from what is pathetic, but hangs fondly upon pathos. It is the
idea of sorrow, not sorrow, which charms: and so the young singer
dwells upon those lingering tomorrows, happy in the conception of
a permanent wretchedness incurred in the interest of sentiment.
For youth believes in permanence.

It is when we are young that we say, "I shall never," and "I shall
always," not knowing that we are only time's atoms in a crucible
of incredible change. An old man scarce dares say, "I have never,"
for he knows that if he searches he will find, probably, that he
has. "All, all is change."

It was an evening during the winter holidays when Mrs. Lindley,
coming to sit by the fire in her son's smoking-room, where Richard
sat glooming, narrated her legend of the Devil of Lisieux. It must
have been her legend: the people of Lisieux know nothing of it;
but this Richard the Guileless took it for tradition, as she
alleged it, and had no suspicion that she had spent the afternoon
inventing it.

She did not begin the recital immediately upon taking her chair,
across the hearth from her son; she led up to it. She was an
ample, fresh-coloured, lively woman; and like her son only in
being a kind soul: he got neither his mortal seriousness nor his
dreaminess from her. She was more than content with Cora's
abandonment of him, though, as chivalrousness was not demanded of
her, she would have preferred that he should have been the jilt.
She thought Richard well off in his release, even at the price of
all his savings. But there was something to hope, even in that
matter, Pryor wrote from Paris encouragingly: he believed that
Moliterno might be frightened or forced into at least a partial
restitution; though Richard would not count upon it, and had
"begun at the beginning" again, as a small-salaried clerk in a
bank, trudging patiently to work in the morning and home in the
evening, a long-faced, tired young man, more absent than ever,
lifeless, and with no interest in anything outside his own
broodings. His mother, pleased with his misfortune in love, was of
course troubled that it should c