ll too fast the perfumed days of spring
glided away, a spring which, on that side of Scotland, was balmy and
caressing. Day after day the sun shone, the mist remained in the
distance, making that distance more beautiful still; and everything
within and without was irradiated, and like motes in the sunshine Rendel
saw the golden possibilities of his life dancing in the light of his
hopes and illuminating the path that lay before him.

Rachel wrote to her father constantly, tenderly, solicitously; and Sir
William, reading of her happiness, did not write back to tell her what
those same days meant to him. For in London the sky was grey and heavy,
and it was through a haze the colour of lead that he saw the years to
come. The dark and cheerless winter had given place to a cold and
cheerless spring.

It was a rainy afternoon that the young couple returned to London; but
the gloomy look of the streets outside did but enhance the brightness of
the little house in Cosmo Place, Knightsbridge, with its open, square
hall, in which a bright fire was blazing. Light and warmth shone
everywhere. Rachel drew a long breath of satisfaction, then her eyes
filled with tears. The very sight of London brought back the past. Could
it be possible that her mother was not there to welcome her? She had
thought her father might be awaiting her at Cosmo Place; but as he was
not, she went off instantly to Prince's Gate. How big and lonely the
house looked with its gaunt, ugly portico, its tall, narrow hall and
endless stairs! The drawing-rooms were closed: Sir William was sitting
in his study, a chess-board in front of him, on which he was working out
a problem.

Rachel was terribly perturbed at the change in his appearance--a
something, she did not quite know in what it lay, that betokened some
absolute change of outlook, of attitude. He had the listless,
indifferent air of one who lets himself be drifted here and there rather
than of one who moves securely along, strong enough to hold his own way
in spite of any opposing elements. This fortnight of solitude, in which
he had been face to face with his own life and his prospects, had
suddenly, roughly, pitilessly graven on his face the lines that with
other men successive experiences accumulate there gently and almost
insensibly. He had taken a sudden leap into old age, as sometimes
happens to men of his standing, who, as long as their life is smooth,
uneventful, and prosperous, succeed in keepin