he
invariably succeeded in drawing people out. But on this day he was not
in the humor for it; instead, he thought over the abusive article
and the mangled report in the "Longstaff Mercury," and debated within
himself whether it were worth an action for libel. His love of fighting
said yes, his common sense said no; and in the end common sense won the
day, but left him doubly depressed. He moved to the shady side of the
carriage and looked out of the window. He was a great lover of Nature,
and Nature was looking her loveliest just then. The trees, in all the
freshness of early June, lifted their foliage to the bluest of skies,
the meadows were golden with buttercups, the cattle grazed peacefully,
the hay fields waved unmown in the soft summer air, which, though
sparing no breath for the hot and dusty traveler, was yet strong enough
to sweep over the tall grasses in long, undulating waves that made them
shimmer in the sunlight.

Raeburn's face grew serene once more; he had a very quick perception of
the beautiful. Presently he retired again behind a newspaper, this time
the "Daily Review," and again his brow grew stern, for there was bad
news from the seat of war; he read the account of a great battle, read
the numbers of his slain countrymen, and of those who had fallen on the
enemy's side. It was an unrighteous war, and his heart burned within
him at the thought of the inhuman havoc thus caused by a false ambition.
Again, as if he were fated that day to be confronted with the dark side
of life, the papers gave a long account of a discovery made in some
charity school, where young children had been hideously ill-treated.
Raeburn, who was the most fatherly of men, could hardly restrain the
expression of his righteous indignation. All this mismanagement, this
reckless waste of life, this shameful cruelty, was going on in what was
called "Free England." And here was he, a middle-aged man, and time
was passing on with frightful rapidity, and though he had never lost an
opportunity of lifting up his voice against oppression, how little had
he actually accomplished!

"So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be!"

That was the burden of the unuttered cry which filled his whole being.
That was the point where his atheism often brought him to a noble
despair. But far from prompting him to repeat the maxim "Let us eat and
drink, for tomorrow we die!" it spurred him rather to a sort of fiery
energy, never