he
other side but refrained, and, without more ado, made Stafford at home
in the bare little room that was to serve him for sleeping and living.
Stafford was full of weariness, and sank down on the bed with a sense of
momentary respite. He would not begin to think till to-morrow.

Here we must leave him to wage his uncertain battle. When the visible
and the invisible meet in the shock of strife about the soul of a man,
who may describe the changes and chances of the fight? In the peace of
his chosen solitude would he re-conquer the vision that the clouds had
hidden from him? Or would the allurements of his earthly love be less
strong because its dazzling incitements were no longer actually before
his eyes? He had refused all aid and all alliance. He had chosen to try
the issue alone and unbefriended. Was he strong enough?--strong enough
to think on his love, and yet not to bow to it?--strong enough to
picture to himself all its charms, only to refuse to gather them? Should
he not have seized every aid that counsel and authority could offer him?
Would he not find too late that his true strategy had been to fly, and
not to challenge, the encounter? He had fancied he could be himself the
impartial judge in his own cause, however vast the bribe that lay ready
to his hand. The issue of his sojourn alone could tell whether he had
misjudged his strength.

While Stafford mused and strove the world moved on, and with it that
small fraction of it whose movements most nearly bore on the fortunes of
the recluse.

The party at Millstead Manor was finally broken up by the departure of
the Territons and of Morewood about a week after Stafford left. The
cricket-match came off with great _eclat_; in spite of a steady thirteen
from the Rector, who spent two hours in "compiling" it--to use the
technical term--and of several catches missed by Sir Roderick, who was
tried in vain in all positions in the field, the Manor team won by five
wickets, and Bob Territon felt that his summer had been well spent. Ayre
lingered on with Eugene, shooting the coverts till mid September, when
the latter abruptly and perhaps rudely announced that he could not stand
it any longer, and straightway took himself off to the Continent,
sending a line to Stafford to apprise him of the fact, and another to
Kate, to say he would have no address for the next month.

For a moment Sir Roderick was at a loss. He was tired of shooting; he
hated yachting; the ordinary