ting
there in the dark and the cold, he grew barely conscious of his own
pain. This is Nature's mercy. When the wound is beyond bearing she draws
away the sufferer's consciousness, and an extremity of agony brings its
own relief, if only for a little while. A dull ache of respite follows
the keener agonies alike of bodily and of mental pain. So he sat there,
dulled and numb and empty, and for the moment he cared for nothing.

A gleam of light and the sound of a coming footstep awoke him to a
knowledge of his surroundings. He did not wish to be found there
sitting miserably in the dark, and he arose, and stood uncertain in what
direction to move. The light grew clearer and nearer, and as it turned
the corner he saw that it was carried by Irene. He forgot his impulse
towards flight, and stood rooted, staring as if he beheld a vision. The
little figure came forward with uncertain footsteps, one hand holding
the candlestick overhead and the other groping for the wall. The feet
trod with a. harsh sound on one or two fragments of broken glass which
had escaped the housemaid's broom. A yearning ache filled him as the
girl came nearer, for he saw that her eyes were blind with tears. There
was no distortion of the features, save that the small mouth quivered;
and the shining drops brimmed over heavily and silently. Not a sigh
escaped her, and she came on like a figure in a dream. He moved forward
involuntarily, and her name sprang to his lips.

'Irene!'

She paused and pressed her disengaged hand upon her eyes to clear them
of that bitter rain. Then she looked up at him in silence, and the big
tears began to well over, shining like diamonds as they fell to the
bosom of her dress. It was to be his last sight of her in his own home.
He knew it, and his own heart was like cold iron in his breast. She
made a picture never to be forgotten; a picture to be recalled on stormy
nights at sea; in many a lonely hour of contemplation on alien shores;
in many hours of sickness and delirium, in summer heats among the
vineyards on the banks of Alma, in winter frosts in the trenches of
Sevastopol; in convalescent wanderings amid the dumb reminders of
English dead at Scutari; and later, too, in happy hours when the storms
of youth were over, and manhood's heart had found safe anchorage, and
the dear head was touched with silver.

She stood there weeping, and he had no power to comfort her--no right to
comfort her.

'Good-bye, Irene.' He ha