, the sun and south-wind will reach him; the budding of
hedges, and carolling of birds, and singing of liberated streams, will
call him to kindly resurrection. _Perhaps_ this may be the case,
perhaps not: the frost may get into his heart and never thaw more; when
spring comes, a crow or a pie may pick out of the wall only his
dormouse-bones. Well, even in that case, all will be right: it is to be
supposed he knew from the first he was mortal, and must one day go the
way of all flesh, "As well soon as syne."

Following that eventful evening at the theatre, came for me seven weeks
as bare as seven sheets of blank paper: no word was written on one of
them; not a visit, not a token.

About the middle of that time I entertained fancies that something had
happened to my friends at La Terrasse. The mid-blank is always a
beclouded point for the solitary: his nerves ache with the strain of
long expectancy; the doubts hitherto repelled gather now to a mass
and--strong in accumulation--roll back upon him with a force which
savours of vindictiveness. Night, too, becomes an unkindly time, and
sleep and his nature cannot agree: strange starts and struggles harass
his couch: the sinister band of bad dreams, with horror of calamity,
and sick dread of entire desertion at their head, join the league
against him. Poor wretch! He does his best to bear up, but he is a
poor, pallid, wasting wretch, despite that best.

Towards the last of these long seven weeks I admitted, what through the
other six I had jealously excluded--the conviction that these blanks
were inevitable: the result of circumstances, the fiat of fate, a part
of my life's lot and--above all--a matter about whose origin no
question must ever be asked, for whose painful sequence no murmur ever
uttered. Of course I did not blame myself for suffering: I thank God I
had a truer sense of justice than to fall into any imbecile
extravagance of self-accusation; and as to blaming others for silence,
in my reason I well knew them blameless, and in my heart acknowledged
them so: but it was a rough and heavy road to travel, and I longed for
better days.

I tried different expedients to sustain and fill existence: I commenced
an elaborate piece of lace-work, I studied German pretty hard, I
undertook a course of regular reading of the driest and thickest books
in the library; in all my efforts I was as orthodox as I knew how to
be. Was there error somewhere? Very likely. I only know th