s the hero. Now the one
is exchanged for Goethe, and the other for Wilhelm Meister."

"Cruel! You know that my Goethe fever is long past. How would you have
known of its existence if I had not confessed it to you as a sin of
old years? Have I not said to you, again and again, show me the thing
which you would have me do for your sake, and see if I will not do
it!"

"For my sake? A noble reason! Show yourself the thing which you will
do for its own sake; because it ought to be done. Show it yourself, I
say; I cannot show you. If your own eyes cannot see the Sangreal, and
the angels who are bearing it before you, it is because they are dull
and gross; and am I Milton's archangel, to purge them with euphrasy
and rue? If you have a noble heart, you will find for yourself the
noblest Quest. If not, who can prove to you that it is noble?" And
tapping impatiently with her foot, she went on to herself--

"'A gentle sound, an awful light!
Three angels bear the holy Grail;
With folded feet, in stoles of white,
On sleeping wings they sail.

Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
The spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides, the glory slides,
And star-like mingles with the stars.'

"Why, there was not a knight of the round table, was there, who did
not give up all to go upon that Quest, though only one was found
worthy to fulfil it? But now-a-days, the knights sit drinking hock
and champagne, or drive sulky-wagons, and never fancy that there is a
Quest at all."

"Why talk in these parables?"

"So the Jews asked of their prophets. They are no parables to my
ghost-husband, Sir Galahad. Now go, if you please; I must be busy, and
write letters."

He rose with a look, half of disappointment, half amused, and yet his
face bore a firmness which seemed to say, "You will be mine yet." As
he rose, he cast his eye upon the writing-table, and upon a letter
which lay there: and as he did so, his cheek grew pale, and his brows
knitted.

The letter was addressed to "Thomas Thurnall, Esq., Aberalva."

"Is this, then, your Sir Galahad?" asked he, after a pause, during
which he had choked down his rising jealousy, while she looked first
at herself in the glass, and then at him, and then at herself again,
with a determined and triumphant air.

"And what if it be?"

"So he, then, has achieved the Quest of the Sangreal?"

Stangrave spoke bitterly, and with an emphasis upon the "he;" and--

"What if he ha