leased God to call them, it was Jim who was the useful and honoured
man, not Caius.

It was clear that all the months and years of his absence had enabled
his parents to do very well without their son. They did not know it, but
in all the smaller things that make up the most of life, his interests
had ceased to be their interests. Caius had the courage to realize that
even at home he was not much wanted. If, when Jim married Mabel, he
would settle down with the old folks, they would be perfectly happy.

On his return, Caius had learned that the post for which he had applied
in the autumn had not been awarded to him. He knew that he must go as
soon as possible to find out a good place in which to begin his
professional life, but at present the state of his father's bad leg was
so critical, and the medical skill of the neighbourhood so poor, that he
was forced to wait.

All this time there was one main thought in his mind, to which all
others were subordinate. He saw his situation quite clearly; he had no
doubts about it. If Josephine would come to him and be his wife, he
would be happy and prosperous. Josephine had the power to make him twice
the man he was without her. It was not only that his happiness was bound
up in her; it was not only that Josephine had money and could manage it
well, although he was not at all above thinking of that; it was not even
that she would help and encourage and console him as no one else would.
There was that subtle something, more often the fruit of what is called
friendship than of love, by which Josephine's presence increased all his
strong faculties and subdued his faults. Caius knew this with the
unerring knowledge of instinct. He tried to reason about it, too: even
a dull king reigns well if he have but the wit to choose good ministers;
and among men, each ruling his small kingdom, they are often the most
successful who possess, not many talents, but the one talent of choosing
well in friendship and in love.

Ah! but it is one thing to choose and another to obtain. Caius still
felt that he dared not seek Josephine. Since Le Maitre's death something
of the first blank horror of his own guilt had passed away, but still he
knew that he was not innocent. Then, too, if he dared to woo her, what
would be the result? That last admonition and warning that he had given
her when she was about to leave the island with him clogged his hope
when he sought to take courage. He knew that popular