ry
quiet; the weary look of the worn cheeks was smoothed out; the absent
eyes were lightly closed. Closed, too, on the rough world was the poor
soul that was vexed by it.

Hugh Ritson was touched. Somewhere deep down in that frozen nature the
angel of love troubled the still waters.

Bending his head, he would have touched the cold forehead with his
feverish lips. But he drew back. No, no, no! Tenderness was not for
him. The good God gave it to some as manna from heaven. But here and
there a man, stretched on the rack of life, had not the drop of water
that would cool his tongue.

With stealthy steps, as of one who had violated the chamber of chastity,
Hugh Ritson crept back to his own room. He took brandy from a cupboard
and drank a glass of it. Then he lay down and composed himself afresh to
sleep. Thoughts of Greta came back to him. Even his love for her was
without tenderness. It was a fiery passion. It made him weep,
nevertheless. Galling tears, hot, bitter, smarting tears, rolled from
his eyes. And down in that deep and hidden well of feeling, where he,
too, was a man like other men, Hugh Ritson's strong heart bled. He would
have thought that love like his must have subdued the whole world to its
will; that when a woman could reject it the very stones must cry out.
Pshaw!

Would sleep never come? He leaped up, and laughed mockingly, drank
another glass of brandy, and laughed again. His door was open, and the
hollow voice echoed through the house.

He put on a dressing-gown, took his lamp in his hand, and walked
down-stairs and into the hall. The wind had risen. It moaned around the
house, then licked it with hissing tongues. Hugh Ritson walked to the
ingle, where no fire burned. There he stood, scarcely knowing why. The
lamp in his hand cast its reflection into the mirror on the wall. Behind
it was a flushed face, haggard, with hollow eyes and parted lips.

The sight recalled another scene. He stepped into the little room at the
back. It was in that room his father died. Now it was empty; a bare
mattress, a chair, a table--no more.

Hugh Ritson lifted the lamp above his head and looked down. He was
enacting the whole terrible tragedy afresh. He crept noiselessly to the
door, opened it slightly, and looked cautiously out. Then, leaving it
ajar, he stood behind it with bent head and inclining ear. His face wore
a ghastly smile.

The wind soughed and wept without.

Hugh Ritson threw the door open and step