ved to remind me of the beautiful
girl whom I had left in darkness. The light were worthless to me if I
could not share it with her. What a mooning lout was I!

All my life I had been a philosopher, and as I rode from Haddon, beneath
all my gloominess there ran a current of amusement which brought to my
lips an ill-formed, half-born laugh when I thought of the plight and
condition in which I, by candid self-communion, found myself. Five years
before that time I had left France, and had cast behind me all the fair
possibilities for noble achievement which were offered to me in that land,
that I might follow the fortunes of a woman whom I thought I loved. Before
my exile from her side I had begun to fear that my idol was but a thing of
stone; and now that I had learned to know myself, and to see her as she
really was, I realized that I had been worshipping naught but clay for lo,
these many years. There was only this consolation in the thought for me:
every man at some time in his life is a fool--made such by a woman. It is
given to but few men to have for their fool-maker the rightful queen of
three kingdoms. All that was left to me of my life of devotion was a
shame-faced pride in the quality of my fool-maker. "Then," thought I, "I
have at last turned to be my own fool-maker." But I suppose it had been
written in the book of fate that I should ride from Haddon a lovelorn
youth of thirty-five, and I certainly was fulfilling my destiny to the
letter.

I continued to ride up the Lathkil until I came to a fork in the road. One
branch led to the northwest, the other toward the southwest. I was at a
loss which direction to take, and I left the choice to my horse, in whose
wisdom and judgement I had more confidence than in my own. My horse,
refusing the responsibility, stopped. So there we stood like an equestrian
statue arguing with itself until I saw a horseman riding toward me from
the direction of Overhaddon. When he approached I recognized Sir John
Manners. He looked as woebegone as I felt, and I could not help laughing
at the pair of us, for I knew that his trouble was akin to mine. The pain
of love is ludicrous to all save those who feel it. Even to them it is
laughable in others. A love-full heart has no room for that sort of
charity which pities for kinship's sake.

"What is the trouble with you, Sir John, that you look so downcast?" said
I, offering my hand.

"Ah," he answered, forcing a poor look of cheerfulness