ged the pristine white to
dingy yellow.

"Whose hands could have worn them? whose chamber was this?" mused
Balder. "Not Gnulemah's; she knows nothing of kid gloves and powder!
and these things were in use before she was born. Whose face was
reflected in this glass, when those gloves were thrown down here? Was
that her marriage-bed? Were children born in it?"

His seizure of the night before must have dulled the edge of his wit,
else he had scarce asked questions which chance now answered for him.
A scratch on one corner of the polished mirror-surface showed, on
closer inspection, a name and a date written with a diamond. Shading
off the light with his hand, Balder read, "Helen, 1831."

"My mother's name; the year I was born. My mother!" he repeated
softly, taking up the old yellow gloves. "And this room was my
birthplace,--and my little sister's! My mother's things, as she left
them; for father once told me that he never entered her room after she
was buried. She died here; and here my little sister and I began to
live. And here I am, again,--really the same little helpless innocent
baby who cried on that bed so long ago. Only not innocent now!
Perhaps, not helpless, either!

"How happy that barber was yesterday! prattled about being born again.
Cannot I be born again,--to-day,--in this room? Here I first began,
and have come round the world to my starting-point. I will begin
afresh this morning."

And heavily as he was weighted in the new race, he would not be
disheartened. Unuttered resolves brightened his eyes and made his
courage high.

Before beginning breakfast, he returned to the window and drank again
of the divine blue and green. From the branch of a near tree the
hoopoe startled him and made him color. Was the bird an emissary from
Gnulemah? Balder's mouth drew back, and his chin and eyes
strengthened, as though some part of his unuttered resolves were
recalled by the thought of her.

When he was ready to go, he turned at the door, and threw a parting
glance round the dainty old-fashioned chamber, trying to gather into
one all the thoughts, memories, and resolves connected with it. He
had nearly forgotten the frescos; the victorious sunshine had reduced
the figures, satanic or beautiful, to a meaningless agglomeration of
wandering lines and faded colors. As for his own portrait, it was no
longer distinguishable.

XXII.

HEART AND HEAD.

Balder easily found his way to the conservatory, bu