his friends had entered the estate; he had helped them enter it, but he had acquired an unhealthy habit of watching their venture with wonder at its undertaking and with doubt of its success, and the years had gone by with no desire on his part to assume the risk.  What he saw was not the life he wanted.  Just what he did want he was not sure; but years of contact with much that blights and withers had not killed his belief in certain old-fashioned things, and if they could not come true the journey would be made alone.

What whimsical ways fate had of deciding great issues.  Four weeks ago he was something of a piece of mechanism, fairly content with his drab-colored life; and now a girl had entered it and brought to him visions too fair and beautiful to be viewed unveiled, and he knew at last the mystery and power of love.  Almost a week of her stay had gone before he met her.  In those that followed, he had seen her many times, but frequently he had to stand back and know that others were taking her time when there was none for him to lose.

Should love come to him, he had imagined he would pursue it with the same directness and persistence which had impelled the securing of whatever was determined upon, and instead he was that most despicable of things—­a coward.

She was so young—­fourteen years younger than he—­and what was his to offer in exchange for her life of varied interests, of sweet, sane, helpful, happy things of which he knew so little?  He had thought he knew life, its all sides; and unknown to herself she had shown him what had not been understood before, and his was cold and colorless by the side of the warmth and glow of hers.

Yesterday he had known, however, he would not wait long.  After she had returned to her home he would go to it and tell her why he had come.  All through the day certain words had sung in his ears, and over his books had danced and blurred the figures he was making; and before him in fancy she was waiting for his coming when the day was done, was in the room with outstretched hands to give him greeting as he entered the door.  The light of a new vision had blinded, and in its fire the loneliness of his life had stood out in chill clearness, and no longer could it be endured.  Some one to care if the days were dark, some one to share the giving and taking of life.  At the thought of trust so sacred, his face had whitened, and in his heart unconscious prayer had sprung.

That was yesterday.  This afternoon he had stopped at his sister’s home for tea, as he had done for days past now, and, Dorothea being sick, he had gone up to see her and give her the book bought for her.  As usual, she had much to say, and he let her talk uninterruptedly.  It was of Claudia that she talked, always of Claudia, and he had listened in a silence that gave chance for much detail.