other men, in speech easily, perhaps
hastily uttered, in companionship with his fellows. Any solace of this
kind was too difficult and too deliberate for him to seek it in writing
his lamentations on a slate or spelling them off on his fingers, but his
grief and anger struck inward more deeply.

Phebe saw his sorrow, and would have cheered him if she could; but she,
too, was sorely stricken, and she was young. She tried to set him an
example of diligent work, and placed her easel beside his carving,
painting as long as the gray and fleeting daylight permitted. Now and
then she attempted to sing some of her old merry songs, knowing that his
watchful eyes would see the movement of her lips; but though her lips
moved, her face was sad and her heart heavy. Sometimes, too, she forgot
all about her, and fell into an absorbed reverie, brooding over the
past, until a sob or half-articulate cry from her father aroused her.
These outcries of his troubled her more than any other change in him. He
had been altogether mute in the former tranquil and placid days,
satisfied to talk with her in silent signs; but there was something in
his mind to express now which quiet and dumb signs could not convey. At
intervals, both by day and night, her affection for him was tortured by
these hoarse and stifled cries of grief mingled with rage.

There was a certain sense of the duties of citizenship in old Marlowe's
mind which very few women, certainly not a girl as young as Phebe, could
have shared. Many years ago the elder Sefton had perceived that the
companionless man was groping vaguely after many a dim thought,
political and social, which few men of his class would have been
troubled with. He had given to him several books, which old Marlowe had
pondered over. Now he felt that, quite apart from his own personal
ground of resentment, he had done wrong to the laws of his country by
aiding an offender of them to escape and elude the just penalty. He felt
almost a contempt for Roland Sefton that he had not remained to bear the
consequences of his crime.

The news of Roland's death brought something like satisfaction to his
mind; there was a chill, dejected sense of justice having been done. He
had not prospered in his crime. Though he had eluded man's judgment, yet
vengeance had not suffered him to live. There was no relenting toward
him, as there was in Mr. Clifford's mind. Something like the old heathen
conception of a divine righteousness