evil
memories which are hidden away by man in the darkest places of the heart
but they abide there and wait. He may suffer their memory to grow dim,
let them be as though they had not been and all but persuade himself
that they were not or at least were otherwise. Yet a chance word will
call them forth suddenly and they will rise up to confront him in the
most various circumstances, a vision or a dream, or while timbrel
and harp soothe his senses or amid the cool silver tranquility of the
evening or at the feast, at midnight, when he is now filled with wine.
Not to insult over him will the vision come as over one that lies under
her wrath, not for vengeance to cut him off from the living but shrouded
in the piteous vesture of the past, silent, remote, reproachful.

The stranger still regarded on the face before him a slow recession of
that false calm there, imposed, as it seemed, by habit or some studied
trick, upon words so embittered as to accuse in their speaker an
unhealthiness, a _flair,_ for the cruder things of life. A scene
disengages itself in the observer's memory, evoked, it would seem, by
a word of so natural a homeliness as if those days were really present
there (as some thought) with their immediate pleasures. A shaven space
of lawn one soft May evening, the wellremembered grove of lilacs at
Roundtown, purple and white, fragrant slender spectators of the game but
with much real interest in the pellets as they run slowly forward over
the sward or collide and stop, one by its fellow, with a brief alert
shock. And yonder about that grey urn where the water moves at times
in thoughtful irrigation you saw another as fragrant sisterhood, Floey,
Atty, Tiny and their darker friend with I know not what of arresting in
her pose then, Our Lady of the Cherries, a comely brace of them pendent
from an ear, bringing out the foreign warmth of the skin so daintily
against the cool ardent fruit. A lad of four or five in linseywoolsey
(blossomtime but there will be cheer in the kindly hearth when ere long
the bowls are gathered and hutched) is standing on the urn secured by
that circle of girlish fond hands. He frowns a little just as this young
man does now with a perhaps too conscious enjoyment of the danger but
must needs glance at whiles towards where his mother watches from the
PIAZZETTA giving upon the flowerclose with a faint shadow of remoteness
or of reproach (_alles Vergangliche_) in her glad look.

Mark this fa