ness, perhaps, of soul that forbade
him from exposing his emotions, and recoiled from the revelation of
other people's. He could stand it on the stage, he could stand it in a
book, but in real life he could not stand it. When Ferrand had gone off
with a portmanteau in each hand, he sat down and told Antonia:

. . . The poor chap broke down and sat crying like a child; and instead
of making me feel sorry, it turned me into stone. The more sympathetic I
wanted to be, the gruffer I grew. Is it fear of ridicule, independence,
or consideration, for others that prevents one from showing one's
feelings?

He went on to tell her of Ferrand's starving four days sooner than face
a pawnbroker; and, reading the letter over before addressing it,
the faces of the three ladies round their snowy cloth arose before
him--Antonia's face, so fair and calm and wind-fresh; her mother's face,
a little creased by time and weather; the maiden aunt's somewhat too
thin-and they seemed to lean at him, alert and decorous, and the words
"That's rather nice!" rang in his ears. He went out to post the letter,
and buying a five-shilling order enclosed it to the little barber,
Carolan, as a reward for delivering his note to Ferrand. He omitted to
send his address with this donation, but whether from delicacy or from
caution he could not have said. Beyond doubt, however, on receiving
through Ferrand the following reply, he felt ashamed and pleased.

3, BLANK ROW, WESTMINSTER.

From every well-born soul humanity is owing. A thousand thanks. I
received this morning your postal order; your heart henceforth for me
will be placed beyond all praise.

J. CAROLAN.

CHAPTER XI

THE VISION

A few days later he received a letter from Antonia which filled him with
excitement:

. . . Aunt Charlotte is ever so much better, so mother thinks we can go
home-hurrah! But she says that you and I must keep to our arrangement
not to see each other till July. There will be something fine in being
so near and having the strength to keep apart . . . All the English are
gone. I feel it so empty out here; these people are so funny-all foreign
and shallow. Oh, Dick! how splendid to have an ideal to look up to!
Write at once to Brewer's Hotel and tell me you think the same....
We arrive at Charing Cross on Sunday at half-past seven, stay at
Brewer's for a couple of nights, and go down on Tuesday to Holm Oaks.

Always your

ANTONIA.

"To-morrow!" he though