'Yes, she hasn't a very cheerful home.'

'Oh, but it can be made a very different house. It has fallen into such
neglect. Wait till spring sunshine and the paperhangers invade the
place.'

They issued into a main street, and after a little further talk, shook
hands and parted.

That night, and through the Sunday that followed, Gilbert continued to
suffer even more than his wont from mental dreariness; Mrs. Grail was
unable to draw him into conversation.

About four o'clock she said:

'May I ask Lydia and Thyrza to come and have tea with us, Gilbert?'

He looked up absently.

'But they were here last Sunday.'

'Yes, my dear, but I think they like to come, and I'm sure I like to
have them.'

'Let us leave it till next Sunday, mother. You don't mind? I feel I
must be alone to-night.'

It was a most unusual thing for Gilbert to offer opposition when his
mother had expressed a desire for anything. Mrs. Grail at once said:

'I dare say you're right, my dear. Next Sunday 'll be better.'

The next morning he went to his work through a fog so dense that it was
with difficulty he followed the familiar way. Lamps were mere lurid
blotches in the foul air, perceptible only when close at hand; the
footfall of invisible men and women hurrying to factories made a
muffled, ghastly sound; harsh bells summoned through the darkness, the
voice of pitiless taskmasters to whom all was indifferent save the hour
of toil. Gilbert was racked with headache. Bodily suffering made him as
void of intellectual desire as the meanest labourer then going forth to
earn bread; he longed for nothing more than to lie down and lose
consciousness of the burden of life.

Then came Christmas Eve. The weather had changed; to-night there was
frost in the air, and the light of stars made a shimmer upon the black
vault. Gilbert always gave this season to companionship with his
mother. About seven o'clock they were talking quietly together of
memories light and grave, of Gilbert's boyhood, of his sister who was
dead, of his father who was dead. Then came a pause, whilst both were
silently busy with the irrecoverable past.

Mrs. Grail broke the silence to say:

'You're a lonely man, Gilbert.'

'Why no, not lonely, mother. I might be, but for you.'

'Yes, you're lonely, my dear. It's poor company that I can give you. I
should like to see you with a happier look on your face before I die.'

Gilbert had no reply ready.

'You think too poorly