s are the hard-headed, practical men, who
at heart care only for their own advancement. If you think, I'm sure
you'll find this is true. You see that I am beginning to occupy myself
with serious questions. It will be necessary in the wife of an active
politician. But if you _could_ hint to Mr. Egremont that he is going
shockingly astray! He dined with us the other night, and doesn't look
at all well. I am so afraid lest he is doing all this just because you
tell him to. Is it so?

'But I have fifty other letters to write. My best love to uncle; tell
him to get well as quickly as possible. I wonder that dreadful lonely
place hasn't killed you both. I shall be so glad to see you again, for
I do really like you, Bell, and I know you are awfully wise and good.
Think of me sometimes and hope that I shall be happy.--Yours
affectionately,

'PAULA TYRRELL'

CHAPTER XII

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS

Egremont's face, it was true, showed that things were not altogether
well with him. It was not ill-health, but mental restlessness, which
expressed itself in the lines of his forehead and the diminished
brightness of his eyes. During the last two months of the year he had
felt a constant need of help, and help such as would alone stead him he
could not find.

It was no mere failing of purpose. He prepared his lectures as
thoroughly as ever, and delivered them with no less zeal than in the
first weeks; indeed, if anything, his energy grew, for, since his
nearer acquaintance with Gilbert Grail, the latter's face before him
was always an incentive. There was much to discourage him. More than
half his class fell from lukewarmness to patent indifference; they
would probably present themselves until the end of the course, but it
was little likely that they would recommence with him after Christmas.
He was obliged to recognise the utter absence of idealism from all save
Grail--unless Bunce might be credited with glimmerings of the true
light. Yet intellectually he held himself on firm ground. To have
discovered one man such as Grail was compensation for failure with many
others, and the project of the library was at all times a vista of
hope. But Egremont was not of those who can live on altruism. His life
of loneliness irked him, irked him as never yet. The dawn was a
recurrence of weariness; the long nights were cold and blank.

The old unrest, which he had believed at an end when once 'the task of
his life' was discovered, troub