predicted by Wala, when the dusky foe of love should beget a son in hate.  Wotan had always been her father; Palestrina, Walhalla, and the stupid Jesuits, what were they?  She had often tried to work out the allegory.  It never came out quite right, but she always felt sure in setting down Father Gordon as Alberich.  The scene in the third act, when she throws herself at Wotan’s feet and begs his forgiveness (the music and the words together surged upon her brain), was the scene that now awaited her.  She had at last come to this long-anticipated scene; and the fictitious scene she had acted as she was now going to act the real scene.  True that Wotan forgave Brunnhilde after putting her to sleep on the fire-surrounded rock, where she should remain till a pure hero should come to release her.  A nervous smile curled her lip for a moment; she trembled in her very entrails, and as they passed down the long, mean streets of Camberwell her thoughts frittered out in all sorts of trivial observation and reflection.  She wondered if the mother who called down the narrow alley had ever been in love, if she had ever deceived her husband, if her father had reproved her about the young man she kept company with.  The milkman presented to her strained mind some sort of problem, and the sight of the railway embankment told her she was nearing Dulwich.  Then she saw the cedar at the top of the hill, whither she had once walked to meet Owen. ...  Now it was London nearly all the way to Dulwich.

But when they entered the familiar village street she was surprised at her dislike of it; even the chestnut trees, beautiful with white bloom, were distasteful to her, and life seemed contemptible beneath them.  In Dulwich there was no surprise—­life there was a sheeted phantom, it evoked a hundred dead Evelyns, and she felt she would rather live in any ghostly graveyard than in Dulwich.  Her very knowledge of the place was an irritation to her, and she was pleased when she saw a house which had been built since she had been away.  But every one of the fields she knew well, and the sight of every tree recalled a dead day, a dead event.  That road to the right led to the picture gallery, and at the cross road she had been nearly run over by a waggon while trundling a hoop.  But eyesight hardly helped her in Dulwich; she had only to think, to see it.  The slates of a certain house told her that another minute would bring her to her father’s door, and before the carriage turned the corner she foresaw the patch of black garden.  But if her father were at home he might refuse to see her, and she was not certain if she should force her way past the servant or return home quietly.  The entire dialogue of the scene between her and Margaret passed through her mind, and the very intonation of their voices.  But it was not Margaret who opened the door to her.

“This way, miss, please.”

“No, I’ll wait in the music-room.”

“Mr. Innes won’t have no one wait there in his absence.  Will you come into the parlour?”