d. Ay, love levels all things. They
were not ill-matched, in spite of those twenty years.

And so I left them, and went and sat with John and Ursula--we, the
generation passing away, or ready to pass, in Heaven's good time, to
make room for these. We talked but little, our hearts were too full.
Early, before anybody thought of moving, John carried his wife
up-stairs again, saying that, well as she looked, she must be compelled
to economise both her good looks and her happiness.

When he came down again he stood talking for some time with Mr.
Ravenel. While he talked I thought he looked wearied--pallid even to
exhaustion; a minute or two afterwards he silently left the room.

I followed him, and found him leaning against the chimney-piece in his
study.

"Who's that?" He spoke feebly; he looked--ghastly!

I called him by his name.

"Come in. Fetch no one. Shut the door."

The words were hoarse and abrupt, but I obeyed.

"Phineas," he said, again holding out a hand, as if he thought he had
grieved me; "don't mind. I shall be better presently. I know quite
well what it is--ah, my God--my God!"

Sharp, horrible pain--such as human nature shrinks from--such as makes
poor mortal flesh cry out in its agony to its Maker, as if, for the
time being, life itself were worthless at such a price. I know now
what it must have been; I know now what he must have endured.

He held me fast, half unconscious as he was, lest I should summon help;
and when a step was heard in the passage, as once before--the day Edwin
was married--how, on a sudden, I remembered all!--he tottered forward
and locked, double-locked, the door.

After a few minutes the worst suffering abated, and he sat down again
in his chair. I got some water; he drank, and let me bathe his face
with it--his face, grey and death-like--John's face!

But I am telling the bare facts--nothing more.

A few heavy sighs, gasped as it were for life, and he was himself again.

"Thank God, it is over now! Phineas, you must try and forget all you
have seen. I wish you had not come to the door."

He said this, not in any tone that could wound me, but tenderly, as if
he were very sorry for me.

"What is it?"

"There is no need for alarm;--no more than that day--you recollect?--in
this room. I had an attack once before then--a few times since. It is
horrible pain while it lasts, you see; I can hardly bear it. But it
goes away again, as you also see. It woul