preserved
by each towards the other, and betraying no feeling of any sort
whatever.

"John Cather," says I, "you've been ill."

He laughed. "You are a dull fellow!" says he, in his light way. "'Tis
the penalty of honesty, I suppose; and nature has fined you heavily. I
have not been ill: I have been troubled."

"By what, John Cather?"

"I fancied," he answered, putting his hands on my shoulders, very
gravely regarding me as he spoke, "that I must sacrifice my hope.
'Twas a hope I had long cherished, Dannie, and was become like life to
me." His voice was fallen deep and vibrant and soft; and the feeling
with which it trembled, and the light in the man's eyes, and the noble
poise of his head, and the dramatic arrangement of his sentences, so
affected me that I must look away. "Miserable necessity!" says he. "A
drear prospect! And with no more than a sigh to ease the wretched
fate! And yet," says he, quite heartily, "the thing had a pretty look
to it. Really, a beautiful look. There was a fine reward. A good deed
carries it. Always remember that, Dannie--and remember that I told
you. There was a fine reward. No encouragement of applause,
Dannie--just a long sigh in secret: then a grim age of self-command.
By jove! but there was a splendid compensation. A compensation within
myself, I mean--a recollection of at least one heroically unselfish
act. There would have been pain, of course; but I should never have
forgotten that I had played a man's part--better than a man's part: a
hero's part, a god's part. And that might have been sufficiently
comforting: I do not know--perhaps. I'll tell you about it, Dannie:
the thing was to have been done," he explained, in sincere emotion,
every false appearance gone from him, "for whom, do you think?"

I did not know.

"For a friend," says he.

"But John Cather," says I, "'twas too much to require of you."

His eyes twinkled.

"You've no trouble now, have you?" I asked.

"Not I!" cries he. "I have read a new fortune for myself. Trouble? Not
I! I am very happy, Dannie."

"That's good," says I; "that's very good!"

XXIII

THE TIDE-RIP

Next day 'twas queer weather. 'Twas weather unaccountable, weather
most mysteriously bent, weather that laughed at our bewilderment, as
though 'twere sure of wreaking its own will against us by some trick
recently devised. Never before had I known a time so subtly,
viciously, confidently to withhold its omens. Queer weather, indeed