rain pass. In the glare of the
engine he saw that his brother had come this way, perhaps through some
sodden memory of the Rings, and now lay drunk over the rails. Wearily
he did a man's duty. There was time to raise him up and push him into
safety. It is also a man's duty to save his own life, and therefore he
tried. The train went over his knees. He died up in Cadover, whispering,
"You have been right," to Mrs. Failing.

She wrote of him to Mrs. Lewin afterwards as "one who has failed in
all he undertook; one of the thousands whose dust returns to the dust,
accomplishing nothing in the interval. Agnes and I buried him to the
sound of our cracked bell, and pretended that he had once been alive.
The other, who was always honest, kept away."

XXXV

From the window they looked over a sober valley, whose sides were
not too sloping to be ploughed, and whose trend was followed by a
grass-grown track. It was late on Sunday afternoon, and the valley was
deserted except for one labourer, who was coasting slowly downward on
a rosy bicycle. The air was very quiet. A jay screamed up in the woods
behind, but the ring-doves, who roost early, were already silent.
Since the window opened westward, the room was flooded with light, and
Stephen, finding it hot, was working in his shirtsleeves.

"You guarantee they'll sell?" he asked, with a pen between his teeth. He
was tidying up a pile of manuscripts.

"I guarantee that the world will be the gainer," said Mr. Pembroke,
now a clergyman, who sat beside him at the table with an expression of
refined disapproval on his face.

"I'd got the idea that the long story had its points, but that these
shorter things didn't--what's the word?"

"'Convince' is probably the word you want. But that type of criticism
is quite a thing of the past. Have you seen the illustrated American
edition?"

"I don't remember."

"Might I send you a copy? I think you ought to possess one."

"Thank you." His eye wandered. The bicycle had disappeared into
some trees, and thither, through a cloudless sky, the sun was also
descending.

"Is all quite plain?" said Mr. Pembroke. "Submit these ten stories to
the magazines, and make your own terms with the editors. Then--I have
your word for it--you will join forces with me; and the four stories in
my possession, together with yours, should make up a volume, which we
might well call 'Pan Pipes.'"

"Are you sure `Pan Pipes' haven't been used up already?"