ious sense of having
looked on a superimposed portrait. That Chiltern which she called her
Viking, and which, with a woman's perversity, she had perhaps loved most
of all, was but one expression of the other man of days gone by. The life
of that man was a closed book she had never wished to open. Was he dead,
or sleeping? And if sleeping, would he awake? How softly she tread!

And in these days, with what exquisite, yet tremulous skill and courage
did she bring up the subject of that other labour they were to undertake
together--the life and letters of his father. In the early dusk, when
they had returned from their long rides, she contrived to draw Chiltern
into his study. The cheerfulness, the hopefulness, the delight with which
she approached the task, the increasing enthusiasm she displayed for the
character of the General as she read and sorted the letters and
documents, and the traits of his she lovingly traced in Hugh, were not
without their effect. It was thus she fanned, ceaselessly and with a
smile, and with an art the rarest women possess, the drooping flame. And
the flame responded.

How feverishly she worked, unknown to him, he never guessed; so carefully
and unobtrusively planted her suggestions that they were born again in
glory as his inspiration. The mist had lifted a little, and she beheld
the next stage beyond. To reach that stage was to keep him intent on this
work--and--after that, to publish! Ah, if he would only have patience, or
if she could keep him distracted through this winter and their night, she
might save him. Love such as hers can even summon genius to its aid, and
she took fire herself at the thought of a book worthy of that love, of a
book--though signed by him that would redeem them, and bring a scoffing
world to its knees in praise. She spent hours in the big library
preparing for Chiltern's coming, with volumes in her lap and a note-book
by her side.

One night, as they sat by the blazing logs in his study, which had been
the General's, Chiltern arose impulsively, opened the big safe in the
corner, and took out a leather-bound book and laid it on her lap. Honora
stared at it: it was marked: Highlawns, Visitors' Book."

"It's curious I never thought of it before," he said, "but my father, had
a habit of jotting down notes in it on important occasions. It may be of
some use to us Honora."

She opened it at random and read: "July 5, 1893, Picnic at Psalter's
Falls. Temperature 71 a