that Balder looked for a shield against inward trouble.
Hope held him no more than fear; his happiness must consist in freedom
from both. He thought only of the Gnulemah of to-day,--unique,
beautiful, untamed, divinely ignorant; but whose heart walked before,
leading the giddy mind by paths the wisest dared not tempt. The sounds
of her voice, the shiftings of her expression, her look, her
touch,--he recalled them all. He centred time and space in her.
Change, new conditions, succession of events,--these came not near
her. Their life should know neither past nor future, but abide a
constant Now,--until the end!

His lips followed his thought with soundless movement. Handsome lips
they were,--the under, full, but sharply defined from the
bulwark-chin; the upper, slender, boldly curved, firm, yet
sensitive;--the mouth was a compendium of the man's physical nature.
His eyes, large and almost as dark as Gnulemah's, albeit far different
in effect,--were now in-looking; the pupils, always extraordinarily
large and brilliant, almost filled the space between the eyelids. His
hair clung round his head in yellow curls; the dark dense eyebrows
arched at ease. With velvet doublet and well-moulded limbs, in the
enchanted evening-glow, he looked the ideal fairy prince,--noble,
wise, and valiant; conquering fate for love's sake. They were brave
princes,--they of old time. But one wonders whether the giants and
enchanters, nowadays, are not stronger and subtler than they used to
be!

XX.

BETWEEN WAKING AND SLEEPING.

There was an old woman in the house who went by the name of Nurse; her
duties being to cook the meals and preserve a sort of order in such of
the rooms as were occupied by the family. Since the greater part of
the house was uninhabited, and there were only two mouths to feed
beside her own, Nurse was not without leisure moments. How were they
employed?

Not in gossiping, for she had no cronies. Not in millinery and
dressmaking, for there were no admiring eyes to reward such labors.
Not in gadding, for she might not pass the imprisoning wall. Not even
in reading, perhaps because she was not much of a proficient in that
art.

The truth is that--to the outward eye at least--she was uniformly
idle. For years past she had spent many hours of each night in the
corner of the kitchen fireplace, which was as large, roomy, and
smoke-seasoned as any in story-books or mediaeval halls. Here sat she,
winter and summer,