matter.  The fault lay in the original weakness that submitted to be so fascinated; that gave in to it, notwithstanding the vague expostulations of his better nature, and the consciousness that he was neglecting his duty to Harry, in order to please Euphra and enjoy her society.  Had he persisted in doing his duty, it would at least have kept his mind more healthy, lessened the absorption of his passion, and given him opportunities of reflection, and moments of true perception as to what he was about.  But now the spell was broken at once, and the poor girl had lost a worshipper.  The golden image with the feet of clay might arise in a prophet’s dream, but it could never abide in such a lover’s.  Her glance was powerless now.  Alas, for the withering of such a dream!  Perhaps she deserved nothing else; but our deserts, when we get them, are sad enough sometimes.

All that day he walked as in a dream of loss.  As for the person whom he had used to call Euphra, she was removed to a vast distance from him.  An absolutely impassable gulf lay between them.

She sent for him.  He went to her filled with a sense of insensibility.  She was much worse, and suffering great pain.  Hugh saw at once that she knew that all was over between them, and that he had seen her pass his door, or had been in her room, for he had

left her door a little open, and she had left it shut.  One pathetic, most pitiful glance of deprecating entreaty she fixed upon him, as after a few moments of speechless waiting, he turned to leave the room —­ which would have remained deathless in his heart, but that he interpreted it to mean:  “Don’t tell;” so he got rid of it at once by the grant of its supposed request.  She made no effort to detain him.  She turned her face away, and, hard-hearted, he heard her sob, not as if her heart would break —­ that is little —­ but like an immortal woman in immortal agony, and he did not turn to comfort her.  Perhaps it was better —­ how could he comfort her?  Some kinds of comfort —­ the only kinds which poor mortals sometimes have to give —­ are like the food on which the patient and the disease live together; and some griefs are soonest got rid of by letting them burn out.  All the fire-engines in creation can only prolong the time, and increase the sense of burning.  There is but one cure:  the fellow-feeling of the human God, which converts the agony itself into the creative fire of a higher life.

As for Von Funkelstein, Hugh comforted himself with the conviction that they were destined to meet again.

The day went on, as days will go, unstayed, unhastened by the human souls, through which they glide silent and awful.  After such lessons as he was able to get through with Harry, —­ who, feeling that his tutor did not want him, left the room as soon as they were over —­ he threw himself on the couch, and tried to think.  But think he could not.  Thoughts passed through him, but