are of hell;
and to the consciousness of similar scenes now immediately impending.
Yet the remembrance of that sleeping vision shut him in, surrounded him
as with a very halo, sweet, fragrant, enthralling, rolling around his
soul as a cloud of intoxicating ether.

Upon a temperament such as that of Laurence Stanninghame the life of the
past two years was bound to tell. The hot African glow, the adventurous
life, with peril continually for a fellow-traveller, a familiarity with
weird and shocking deeds, an utter indifference to human suffering and
human life, had strangely affected his inner self. Callous to the woes
of others, yet high strung to a degree, his nature at this time
presented a stage of complexity which was utterly baffling. That
mesmeric property to which Hazon had alluded more than once as one of
the effects of the interior was upon him too. It seemed as though he had
somehow passed into another world, so dulled was all recollection of his
former life, all desire to recall it. Yet one memory remained undimmed.

"Lilith, my soul!" he murmured, his eyes wandering over the brassy,
glaring expanse of water and dried-up reed-bed, as though to annihilate
space and distance. "Lilith, my life! It is time I looked once more upon
that dear face which rendered my dreams so sweet."

His hand, still clasping something within his breast, was drawn forth,
that which hung by the steel chain still inclosed within it. A small,
flat metal box it was, oblong in shape, and shutting so tightly that at
first glance it was hard to see where it opened at all. But open it did,
for now he is holding what it contains--holding it lovingly, almost
reverently, in the palm of his hand. It is a little case, green velvet
worked with flowers, and in the center, spreading fantastically in
spidery pattern in dark maroon, is a monogram--Lilith's. And in like
manner is this same monogram inlaid upon the lid.

Two tiny portraits it contains when opened--photographic portraits,
small, yet clear and delicate as miniatures. Lilith's eyes gaze forth,
seeming to shine from the inanimate cardboard as though with the
love-light of gladness; Lilith's beautiful form, erect in characteristic
attitude, the head slightly thrown back, the sweet lips compressed, just
a touch of sadness in their serenity, as though dwelling upon the
recollection of that last parting; even the soft curling waves of hair,
rippling back from the temples, are lifelike in the c