the
voice of the priest as he read the funeral rite over his dead mother had
made upon his infant mind--the impression of _spoken_ music. His
Virginia could no longer sing, but every word that fell from her lips
was music.

As she and her tall, nun-like mother quietly stepped about the rooms
ministering to his comfort, lifting the work of preparing the simple
meals, mending the fire, and keeping the rooms bright into a sacred rite
by the grace, the care, the dignity with which it was performed, no
word, no look escaped either save of tenderness, patience, and boundless
love. All the reproaches came from within his own breast--from that
inner self that boldly tearing the veil from his deeds filled him with
loathing of himself.

The years, his troubles, and his illness, had wrought a great change in
him--outwardly. The dark ringlets that framed his face were still
untouched with rime, and the dark grey eyes were as vivid, as
ever-varying in expression as before, but the large brow wore a furrow
and over it and the clear-cut features and the emaciated cheeks was a
settled pallor. The face was still very beautiful, but in repose it was
melancholy and about the mouth there was a touch of bitterness. The
illumining smile still flashed out at times, and filled all his
countenance with sweetness and light--but it was rarer than formerly.

He had many reasons for being happy--for being thankful. The genius with
which he was conscious he was endowed in larger measure than others of
his generation was being recognized. He had fame--growing fame--and
money enough for his needs. He had what was as necessary to his soul as
meat was to his body--the love of a woman who understood him in all his
moods and who was beautiful enough in mind and in body and pure enough
in spirit for him to worship as well as to love--to satisfy his soul as
well as his senses. And this woman, at the very moment when he thought
himself about to lose her forever, had been given back to him--given
back clothed upon with a finer a more exquisite beauty than she had
possessed before.

He had indeed found the end of the rainbow, but what did it amount to?
He was dissatisfied--not with what life was giving him, but with what he
was doing with his life. At the moment when his cup was fairly
overflowing with happiness and he should have been strongest, he had
suffered himself to be led away by the Imp of the Perverse, and had
spoiled all. Nothing he had ever be