ured
of some particular future, breathless in expectation of its approach.
Sometimes she strove to picture precisely what it might be, and,
fancifully, she set two men before her--Mark and "William Foster." Even
in real life they seemed two different men. Why not in the life of the
imagination? And that was sweeter, for then she could look forward to
the one standing fast, to the other being stricken. Might not his genius
die in a man while the man lived on? There had been instances of men who
had written one or two brilliant books and had seemed to exhaust
themselves in that effort. And she dreamed of her husband's gift being
stolen from him--divinely--of the stranger being slain. Yet this
dreaming was idle and fantastic, the image which greets closed eyes. For
Mark's energy and enthusiasm were growing. The fury of the papers fed
him. The cries of pious fear emboldened his dogged and dreary talent.
His genius grew darker as its darkness became recognised.

This third book of his promised to be more powerful, more deadly, than
either of its forerunners. He did not speak much of it to Catherine. But
now and then, carried away by excitement and by the need of sympathy, he
dropped a hint of what he was doing. She listened attentively but said
little. Mark noticed her lack of responsiveness, and one night he said
rather bitterly,

"You no longer care for your husband's achievements, Catherine."

He did not call her Kitty.

"I fear them, Mark," Catherine replied.

"Fear them! Why?"

"They are doing great harm in the world."

Mark uttered an impatient exclamation. As a man he was kind and gentle,
but as an artist he was wilful and intolerant. Soon after this he wrote
to Berrand and invited him to stay. Berrand came. This time Catherine
shuddered at his coming. She began to look upon him as her husband's
evil genius. Berrand did not apparently notice any change in her, for he
treated her as usual, and spoke much to her of Mark. And Catherine was
too reserved to express the feelings which tortured her to a comparative
stranger. For this reason Berrand did not understand the terrible
conflict that was raging within her as "William Foster's" new work grew,
and he often spoke to her about the book, and described, with
mischievous intellectual delight, its terror, its immorality and its
pain. Catherine listened with apparent calm. She was waiting for that
interruption from heaven. She was wondering why it did not come.

O