ional of that kind."

"Don't speak so wildly, dear. Perhaps you will not go away at all. You
have not made up your mind."

"When I tell you I know nothing, not even about to-morrow! But I don't
entertain much hope. That is how it will end, in all probability. And of
course I don't want you to stay like rooks among the trees here. Poor
old house! it will soon have no daylight at all, as you say."

"Theo, I hope you will do something before it is too late. It is not a
beautiful house, but you were born in it, and so was your father."

He pressed her arm almost violently within his. "Who knows, mother?
great days may be coming for the old place: or if not, let it drop to
pieces, what does it matter? I shall be the last of the Warrenders."

"Theo," she said with agitation, returning the pressure of his arm,
"have you said anything to-night?"

Her question was vague enough, but he had no difficulty in understanding.
He said, after a moment, "I had no opportunity, there were people there;
but to-morrow, to-morrow----"

They came out together as these words were said upon the edge of the
pond. In the depth of that dark mirror, broken by water-lilies and
floating growth of all kinds, there was a pale reflected sky, very
colourless and clear, the very soul and centre of the brooding evening.
Everything was dark around, the heavy summer foliage black in the absence
of light, the heart of June as gloomy as if the trees had been funeral
plumes. The two figures, dark like all the rest, stood for a moment on
the edge of the water, looking down upon that one pale, dispassionate,
reflected light. There was no cheer in it, nor anything of the movement
and pulsation of human existence. The whiteness of the reflection chilled
Mrs. Warrender, and made her shiver. "I suppose," she said, "I am fanciful
to-night; it looks to me like an unkindly spectator, who does not care
what becomes of us." She added, with a little nervous laugh, "Perhaps
it is not very probable that our little affairs should interest the
universe, after all."

Warrender did not make any reply. He heard what was said to him and saw
what was round him in a dim sort of confused way, as if every object and
every voice was at a distance; and with an impatience, too, which it was
painful to him to keep down. He went back with her to the house saying
little; but could not rest there, and came out again, groping his way
through the surrounding trees, and returned after a