his feet up, and his hands round his knees, on the
window-seat, perfectly at his ease, and chattering to Power like a young
jackdaw. A thrill of pleasure passed through Walter's heart as a glance
showed him how well his proposal had succeeded. Power evidently had had
no reason to repent of his kindness, and Eden looked more like the
bright and happy child which he had once been, than ever was the case
since he had come to Saint Winifred's. He was now clean and neat in
dress, and the shadows of fear and guilt which had begun to darken his
young face were chased away.

Power readily joined them in their stroll along the shore, and listened
with affectionate sympathy to their account of Daubeny.

"What is it that has made him ill?" he asked.

"There's no doubt about that," answered Walter; "it's overwork which has
brought on a tendency to brain fever."

"I was afraid so, Walter," and then Power repeated half to himself the
fine lines of Byron on Kirke White--

"So the struck eagle stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And winged the barb that quivered in his heart;
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel.
He nursed the pinion that impelled the steel;
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest,
Drank the last life blood of his bleeding breast."

"What grand verses!" said Walter. "Poor, poor Daubeny!"

"I've never had but one feeling about him myself," said Power, "and that
was a feeling almost like reverence. I hope and trust that he'll be
well enough for to-morrow week. I always looked forward to kneeling
next to him when we were confirmed."

"All, you loved him, Power," said Henderson, "because your tastes were
like his. But I owe a great deal to him--more than I can ever tell you.
I don't feel as if I could tell you now, while he lies there so ill,
poor fellow. He has saved me more than once from vigorous efforts to
throw myself away. But for him I should have gone to the devil long,
long ago. I was _very_ near it once." He sighed, and as they walked by
the violet margent of the evening waves, he offered up in silence an
earnest prayer that Daubeny might live.

The blind old poet would have said that the winds carried the prayer
away and scattered it. But no winds can scatter, no waves can drown,
the immortal spirit of one true prayer. Unanswered it _may_ be--but
scattered and fruitless, _not_!