auty of his work, spiritual and material, had set him
high among the highest in his profession.

Sometimes sorrow changes the dross from the lamp of the spirit so
that it burns with a purity almost unearthly; sometimes sorrow sears,
rendering the very soul insensible; and sometimes sorrow remains under
the ashes, a living coal steadily consuming all that is noble, hardening
all that is ignoble; and is extinguished leaving a devil behind
it--fully equipped to slay the crippled soul.

Alone in his studio at night, motionless in his chair, Drene was
becoming aware of this devil. Reading by lamplight he grew conscious of
it; recognized it as a companion of many years, now understanding that
although pain had ended, hatred had remained, hiding, biding, and very,
very quiet.

And suddenly this hatred had flamed like hell-fire, amazing even
himself--that day when, lifted out of his indifference for an instant
by a young girl's gaiety--and with a smile, half-responsive, on his own
unaccustomed lips, he had learned from her in the same instant, that the
man he had almost ceased to remember was honestly in love with her.

And suddenly he knew that he hated and that he should strike, and that
there could be no comparison in perfection between hatred and what
perhaps was love.

Sometimes, at night, lying on the studio couch, he found himself still
hesitating. Could Graylock be reached after death? Was it possible?
If he broke his word after Graylock was dead could he still strike and
reach him through the woman for whose sake he, Graylock, was going to
step out of things?

That occupied his mind continually, now. Was there anybody who could
tell him about such matters? Did clergymen really know whether the soul
survived? And if it did, and if truly there were a hell, could a living
man add anything to its torments for his enemy's benefit?

One day the janitor, lingering, ventured to ask Drene whether he was
feeling quite well.

"Yes" said Drene, "I am well."

The janitor spoke of his not eating. And, as Drene said nothing, he
mentioned the fact that Drene had not set foot outside his own quarters
in many weeks.

Drene nodded: "I expect to go for a walk this evening."

But he did not. He lay on his couch, eyes open in the darkness,
wondering what Graylock was doing, how he lived, what occupied his days.

What were the nights of a condemned man like? Did Graylock sleep? Did
he suffer? Was the suspense a living death to