not the end: a day follows for the world.
But looking on those blown black funeral sprays, and the wrinkled
chill waters, and the stare of the Esslemont house-windows, it has an
appearance of the last lines of our written volume: dead Finis. Not
death; fouler, the man alive seeing himself stretched helpless for the
altering of his deeds; a coffin carrying him; the fatal whiteheaded
sacerdotal official intoning his aims on the march to front, the drear
craped files of the liveried, salaried mourners over his failure,
trooping at his heels.

Frontward was the small lake's grey water, rearward an avenue of limes.

But the man alive, if but an inch alive, can so take his life in his
clutch, that he does alter, cleanse, recast his deeds:--it is known;
priests proclaim it, philosophers admit it.

Can he lay his clutch on another's life, and wring out the tears shed,
the stains of the bruises, recollection of the wrongs?

Contemplate the wounded creature as a woman. Then, what sort of woman is
she? She was once under a fascination--ludicrously, painfully, intensely
like a sort of tipsy poor puss, the trapped hare tossed to her serpent;
and thoroughly reassured for a few caresses, quite at home, caged and
at home; and all abloom with pretty ways, modest pranks, innocent
fondlings. Gobbled, my dear!

It is the doom of the innocents, a natural fate. Smother the creature
with kindness again, show we are a point in the scale above that old
coiler snake--which broke no bones, bit not so very deep;--she will be,
she ought to be, the woman she was. That is, if she was then sincere,
a dose of kindness should operate happily to restore the honeymoony
fancies, hopes, trusts, dreams, all back, as before the honeymoon showed
the silver crook and shadowy hag's back of a decaying crescent. And
true enough, the poor girl's young crescent of a honeymoon went down
sickly-yellow rather early. It can be renewed. She really was at
that time rather romantic. She became absurd. Romance is in her,
nevertheless. She is a woman of mettle: she is probably expecting to be
wooed. One makes a hash of yesterday's left dish, but she may know
no better. 'Add a pickle,' as Chummy Potts used to say. The dish is
rendered savoury by a slight expenditure of attentions, just a dab of
intimated soft stuff.

'Pleasant to see you established here, if you find the place agreeable,'
he said.

She was kissing her hand to her brother, all her eyes for him--or for