nd in which to steep our exhaustion on the
hillside; who when our hair is grey comes to us still in dreams but
never by day, down the darkening valley, to tell us that our worn out
romantic hopes are but the alphabet of his language.

Such a look there was in Michael's eyes, and what it meant who shall
say? Once and again at long intervals we pass in the thoroughfare of
life young faces which have the same expression, as if they saw beyond,
as if they looked past their own youth across to an immortal youth, from
their own life to an unquenchable, upwelling spring of life. When
Michael spoke, which was little, his words verged on the commonplace. He
explained the obvious with modest directness. He had thought out and
made his own a small selection of platitudes. It is at first a shock to
some of us when we discover that a beautiful spiritual nature is linked
with a tranquil commonplace mind and narrow abilities.

When Michael's eyes rested on anything his still glance seemed to pass
through it, into its essence. An inscrutable Fate had willed that his
eyes should not rest on any woman save Fay.

Was her little hand to rend his illusions from him; or did he perhaps
see her as she was, as her husband, her shrewd old grandmother, her
sister even, had never seen her? Fay had revealed to Michael that of
which many men who write glibly of passion die in ignorance, the wonder
and awe of love, clothed in a woman's form, walking the earth. And in a
reverent and grateful loyalty Michael would have laid down his life for
her, as gladly as Dante would have done for "his lady." But Michael
would have laid down his in silence, as one casts off a glove. He had
never read the "New Life." It is improbable that it would have made any
impression on him if he had read it. He never associated words or books
or poetry with feelings. What he felt he held sacred. He was
unconsciously by nature that which others of the artistic temperament
consciously are in a lesser degree, and are doomed to try to express.
Michael never wanted to express anything, had no impulse of
self-revelation, no interest in his own mental experiences.

While Fay was turning over her little _bric-a-brac_ assortment of
feelings, her toy renunciations, her imitation convictions, Michael was
slowly making the great renunciation without even taking himself into
his confidence. To go away. To see her no more. This was death by
inches. As he sat hour after hour in his little