At the eighth the buzz of tongues faltered suddenly, to be transposed into a new key, so to speak.  Through the gesticulating assembly swept that murmur of expectation which crowds know when the procession is coming at last.  By some mysterious magnetism all were aware that the BRIDE herself—­the poor hysteric bride—­had left the paternal camp, was coming in person to plead with her mercenary lover.

And as the glory of her and the flowers and the white draperies loomed upon Leibel’s vision his heart melted in worship, and he knew his citadel would crumble in ruins at her first glance, at her first touch.  Was it fair fighting?  As his troubled vision cleared, and as she came nigh unto him, he saw to his amazement that she was speckless and composed—­no trace of tears dimmed the fairness of her face, there was no disarray in her bridal wreath.

The clock showed the ninth minute.

She put her hand appeallingly on his arm, while a heavenly light came into her face—­the expression of a Joan of Arc animating her country.

“Do not give in, Leibel!” she said.  “Do not have me!  Do not let them persuade thee!  By my life, thou must not!  Go home!”

So at the eleventh minute the vanquished Eliphaz produced the balance, and they all lived happily ever afterward.

AN IDYL OF LONDON, By Beatrice Harraden

It was one o’clock, and many of the students in the National Gallery had left off work and were refreshing themselves with lunch and conversation.  There was one old worker who had not stirred from his place, but he had put down his brush, and had taken from his pocket a small book, which was like its owner—­thin and shabby of covering.  He seemed to find pleasure in reading it, for he turned over its pages with all the tenderness characteristic of one who loves what he reads.  Now and again he glanced at his unfinished copy of the beautiful portrait of Andrea del Sarto, and once his eyes rested on another copy next to his, better and truer than his, and once he stopped to pick up a girl’s prune-coloured tie, which had fallen from the neighbouring easel.  After this he seemed to become unconscious of his surroundings, as unconscious, indeed, as any one of the pictures near him.  Any one might have been justified in mistaking him for the portrait of a man, but that his lips moved; for it was his custom to read softly to himself.

The students passed back to their places, not troubling to notice him, because they knew from experience that he never noticed them, and that all greetings were wasted on him and all words were wanton expenditure of breath.  They had come to regard him very much in the same way as many of us regard the wonders of nature, without astonishment, without any questionings, and often without any interest.  One girl, a new-comer, did chance to say to her companion: 

“How ill that old man looks!”