where every hour of the day exposed him to some new trial, and where the
part he played was daily becoming more difficult. In town he could at
least be free; he had no need to mask his wretchedness, or to pretend
that he was happy and at ease. No demands, trying to meet, were made on
his sympathy; no innocently loving looks claimed a response. At least,
the bare walls could tell no tales, if he sat for long hours brooding
over a future that looked grim and desolate.

And he was a rich man. Heavens! what mockery! And yet how his friends
would have crowded round him if they had known it! Comfort--nay, even
luxury--was within his power; he could travel, build, add acre to acre;
he could indulge in philanthropic schemes, ride any hobby. And yet,
though he knew this, the thought of his gold seemed bitter as the apples
of Sodom.

It had come too late. Ah, that was the sting--his poverty had been the
gulf between him and happiness, and he had not dared to stretch his hand
across it to the woman he loved; and now, when his opportunity had gone
and he had lost her irrevocably, Fate had showered these golden gifts
upon him, as though to bribe him as one bribes children with some gilded
toy.

Was it a wonder that, as he sat trying to shape that dreary future of
his, his heart was sore within him, and that now and again the thought
crossed him that it might have been well for him if his battered body
could have been laid to rest with those other brave fellows in Zululand?
And then he remembered how Kester had once told him that he must be the
happiest man in the world. He had never quite forgotten that boyish
outburst.

'Don't you see the difference?' he could hear him say. 'I have got this
pain to bear, and no good comes of it; it is just bearing, and nothing
else. But you have suffered in saving other men's lives; it is a kind of
ransom. It must be happiness to have a memory like that!'

Was he suffering for nothing now? Would any good to himself or others
come from a pain so exquisite, so rife with torture--a pain so strongly
impregnated with fear and doubt that he scarcely dared own it to
himself? Only now and again those few bitter words would escape his
lips:

'Oh, my darling, what a mistake! Will you ever find it out before it is
too late?' And then, with a groan, he would answer, as though to
himself: 'Never! never!'

Old habits are strong, and it was certainly absence of mind that made
Captain Burnett take his us