ce--nay, lived in enthusiasm once more.

His week of absence at Christmas, of which we have heard, was spent
again in Jersey. To the roaring music of the Channel breakers he built
up his towers and battlements of prophecy. More, he wrote a poem, and
for a day wondered whether it might be well to read it to his audience
as preface. A friendly sprite whispered in his ear, and saved him from
too utter folly. The sprite had not yet forsaken him; woe to him if
ever it should! He wrapped the poem in a letter to Mr. Newthorpe, and
had a very pleasant reply, written, as he afterwards heard, only a day
or two before Mr. Newthorpe fell ill. Annabel sent her message; 'the
verses were noble, and pure as the sea-foam.'

On returning to town, he sent a note to Grail, asking him to come in
the evening to Great Russell Street or, if that were inconvenient, to
appoint a time for a meeting in Walnut Tree Walk. Gilbert accepted the
invitation, and came for the first time to Egremont's rooms.

Things were not ill with him, Gilbert Grail. You saw in the man's
visage that he had put off ten years of haggard life. His dark, deep
eyes spoke their meanings with the ardour of soul's joy; his cheeks
seemed to have filled out, his brows to have smoothed. It was joy of
the purest and manliest. His life had sailed like some battered,
dun-coloured vessel into a fair harbour of sunlight and blue, and hands
were busy giving to it a brave new aspect. He could scarce think of all
his happiness at once; the coming release from a hateful drudgery, and
the coming day which would put Thyrza's hand in his, would not go into
one perspective. Sometimes he would all but forget the one in thinking
of the other. Now let the early mornings be dark and chill as they
would, let the sky lower in its muddy gloom, let weariness of the flesh
do its worst--those two days were approaching. Why, was he not yet
young? What are five-and-thirty years behind one, when bliss
unutterable beckons forward? It should all be forgotten, that grimy
past poisoned through and through with the stench of candles. Books,
books, and time to use them, and a hearth about which love is
busy--what more can you offer son of man than these?

He had written his acceptance, had endeavoured to write his thanks. The
words were ineffectual.

Egremont received him in his study with gladness. This man had
impressed him powerfully, was winning an ever larger place in his
affection. He welcomed him as