ed, with the exaggerated earnestness of a mind
determined on self-sacrifice, every word his companion had uttered. The
spirit invisible wears the laurel of mental victories, but the body has
to bear the exhaustion, the scars, and the soreness. He was tired, but
he stirred himself again to consider Sara's note. In the course of that
year she had written several letters to Orange--letters about books, new
pictures, and new music. Once she had given him a little song of her
own composition as something of which she "desired to hear no more for
ever." The song was sentimental, and he locked it away, wondering at the
time whether she really had an unfortunate affection for Lord Reckage.
But in reading her note that evening he decided against his original
fear. Women did not write in that strain to men whom they loved, or had
ever loved ... even passably well. He returned it to the owner with this
comment--

"A woman, you know, is like your shadow: run away from her and she
follows you; run after her and she flies from you. That's an old saying.
It is true so long as she does not love the man. And when she loves the
man--well, then she ceases to be a shadow. She becomes a living thing."

"That is no answer at all. If you could read her heart and whole thought
at this moment, what would you see there?"

"Unhappiness," said Robert; "discontent."

Reckage took the little sheet and folded it into his pocket-book.

"That's wonderful," said he, "because the same things are in my mind,
too. I wish I could describe my feelings about Agnes. She satisfies the
aesthetic side of my nature. But there is another side. And Sara comes
nearer to it than she. Mind you, I know my duty in the matter. There are
things which one is compelled to do under tremendous penalties. I have
chosen, and I must abide by my choice."

Robert looked well at his friend, and saw, in his expression, all that
he had known would inevitably, either soon or too late, work to the
surface.

"Yet the old tremulous affection lies in me," continued Reckage; "my
nerves are in a kind of blaze. You couldn't tell anything about it,
because you don't know."

The Emperor's burgundy, no doubt, had warmed his spirit to
communicativeness. He drew his chair closer to the table, and talked in
a low voice about his ghastly solitude of soul. His engagement to Miss
Carillon had not been an agreeable experience.

"And marriage," said he, "will be the crowning point of these unb