lady--Mrs. Maclure," he said, jamming his hat
down on his head, "if I have to spend the rest of my life in the
search."

CHAPTER LII

Beth, surrounded by friends, saw the spring come in that year at
Ilverthorpe, and felt it the fairest spring she could remember.
Blackbird and thrush sang in an ecstasy by day, and all night long the
nightingales trilled in the happy dusk. She did not ask herself why it
was there was a new note in nature that year, nor did she trouble
herself about time or eternity. Her eternity was the exquisite
monotony of tranquil days, her time-keepers the spring flowers, the
apple-blossom and quince, daffodil, wallflower, lilac and laburnum,
the perfumed calycanthus, forget-me-nots, pansies, hyacinths,
lilies-of-the-valley in the woods, and early roses on a warm south
wall; and over all the lark by day, and again at night the
nightingale. In a life like hers, after a period of probation there
comes an interval of this kind occasionally, a pause for rest and
renewal of strength before active service begins again.

While she had been shut up with Arthur, seeing no papers and hearing
no news, her book had come out and achieved a very respectable
success, for the sort of thing it was; and she was pleased to hear it,
but not elated. The subject had somehow lapsed from her mind, and the
career of the book gave her no more personal pleasure than if it had
been the work of a friend. Had it come out when it was first finished,
she would have felt differently about it; but now she saw it as only
one of the many things which had happened to her, and considered it
more as the old consider the works of their youth, estimating them in
proportion, as is the habit of age, and moderately rather than in
excess. For the truth was that a great change had come over Beth
during the last few months in respect to her writing; her enthusiasm
had singularly cooled; it had ceased to be a pleasure, and become an
effort to her to express herself in that way.

Mr. Alfred Cayley Pounce had been looking out for Beth's book, and,
while waiting for it to appear, he had, misled by his own
suppositions, prepared an elaborate article upon the kind of thing he
expected it to be. Nothing was wanting to complete the article but a
summary of the story and quotations from it, for which he had left
plenty of space. He condemned the book utterly from the point of view
of art, and for the silly ignorance of life displayed in it, an