nly between entering his chambers late at night and going to bed;
and fearful of the sleepless hours, every sensation exaggerated by
the effect of the insomnia, he sat in dreadful commune with the
spectre of his life, waiting for the apparition to leave him.

"And to think," he cried, turning his face to the wall, "that it is
this _ego_ that gives existence to it all!"

One of the most terrible of these assaults of consciousness came upon
him on the winter immediately on his return from London. He had gone
to London to see Miss Dudley, whom he had not seen since his return
from Africa--therefore for more than two years. Only to her had he
written from the desert; his last letters, however, had remained
unanswered, and for some time misgivings had been astir in his heart.
And it was with the view of ridding himself of these that he had been
to London. The familiar air of the house seemed to him altered, the
servant was a new one; she did not know the name, and after some
inquiries, she informed him that the lady had died some six months
past. All that was human in him had expressed itself in this
affection; among women Lily Young and Miss Dudley had alone touched
his heart; there were friends scattered through his life whom he had
worshipped; but his friendships had nearly all been, though intense,
ephemeral and circumstantial; nor had he thought constantly and
deeply of any but these two women. So long as either lived, there was
a haven of quiet happiness and natural peace in which his shattered
spirit might rock at rest; but now he was alone.

Others he saw with homes and family ties; all seemed to have hopes
and love to look to but he--"I alone am alone! The whole world is in
love with me, and I'm utterly alone." Alone as a wreck upon a desert
ocean, terrible in its calm as in its tempest. Broken was the helm
and sailless was the mast, and he must drift till borne upon some
ship-wrecking reef! Had fate designed him to float over every rock?
must he wait till the years let through the waters of disease, and he
foundered obscurely in the immense loneliness he had so elaborately
prepared?

Wisdom! dost thou turn in the end, and devour thyself? dost thou
vomit folly? or is folly born of thee?

Overhead was cloud of storm, the ocean heaved, quick lightnings
flashed; but no waves gathered, and in heavy sulk a sense of doom lay
upon him. Wealth and health and talent were his; he had all, and in
all he found he had noth