t
such a time. Warrender had been wandering about all day, restless, not
knowing what to do with himself. He was not given to games of any kind,
but he thought to-day that he would have felt something of the sort
a relief, though he knew it would have shocked the household. In the
afternoon, on a chance suggestion of his mother's, he saw that it was
a sort of duty to walk over to Markland and ask how Lady Markland was.
Twelve miles--six there and six back again--is a long walk for a student.
He sent up his name, and asked whether he could be of any use, but he
did not receive encouragement. Lady Markland sent her thanks, and was
quite well ("she says," the old butler explained, with a shake of the
head, so that no one might believe he agreed in anything so unbecoming).
The Honourable John had been telegraphed for, her husband's uncle, and
everything was being done; so that there was no need to trouble Mr.
Warrender. He went back, scarcely solaced by his walk. He wanted to be
doing something. Not Plato; in the circumstances Plato did not answer at
all. When he opened his book his thoughts escaped from him, and went off
with a bound to matters entirely different. How was it possible that he
could give that undivided attention which divine philosophy requires,
the day after his father's funeral, the first day of his independent
life, the day after----! That extraordinary postscript to the agitations
of yesterday told, perhaps, most of all. When the girls asked him to
read to them, opening the book at the page where they had left off,
and preparing to tell him all that had gone before, so that he might
understand the story ("although there is very little story," Minnie
said, with satisfaction; "chiefly thoughts upon serious subjects"), he
jumped up from his chair in almost fierce rebellion against that sway of
the ordinary of which his mother had spoken. "You were right," he said
to her; "the common routine is the thing that outlasts everything. I
never thought of it before, but it is true."

Mrs. Warrender, though she had herself been quivering with the
long-concentrated impatience for which it seemed even now there could be
no outlet, was troubled by her son's outburst, and, afraid of what it
might come to, felt herself moved to take the other side. "It is very
true," she said, faltering a little, "but the common routine is often
best for everything, Theo. It is a kind of leading-string, which keeps
us going."

The girl