he did not think them.  He was powerless in regard to them.  They came and went of their own will:  he could neither say come nor go.  Tired at length of the couch, he got up and paced about the room for hours.  When he came to himself a little, he found that the sun was nearly setting.  Through the top of a beech-tree taller than the rest, it sent a golden light, full of the floating shadows of leaves and branches, upon the wall of his room.  But there was no beauty for him in the going down of the sun; no glory in the golden light; no message from dream-land in the flitting and blending and parting, the constantly dissolving yet ever remaining play of the lovely and wonderful shadow-leaves.  The sun sank below the beech-top, and was hidden behind a cloud of green leaves, thick as the wood was deep.  A grey light instead of a golden filled the room.  The change had no interest for him.  The pain of a lost passion tormented him —­ the aching that came of the falling together of the ethereal walls of his soul, about the space where there had been and where there was no longer a world.

A young bird flew against the window, and fluttered its wings two or three times, vainly seeking to overcome the unseen obstacle which the glass presented to its flight.  Hugh started and shuddered.  Then first he knew, in the influence of the signs of the approaching darkness, how much his nerves had suffered from the change that had passed.  He took refuge with Harry.  His pupil was now to be his consoler; who in his turn would fare henceforth the better, for the decay of Hugh’s pleasures.  The poor boy was filled with delight at having his big brother all to himself again; and worked harder than ever to make the best of his privileges.  For Hugh, it was wonderful how soon his peace of mind began to return after he gave himself to his duty, and how soon the clouds of disappointment descended below the far horizon, leaving the air clear above and around.  Painful thoughts about Euphra would still present themselves; but instead of becoming more gentle and sorrowful as the days went on, they grew more and more severe and unjust and angry.  He even entertained doubts whether she did not know all about the theft of both rings, for to her only had he discovered the secret place in the old desk.  If she was capable of what he believed, why should she not be capable of anything else?  It seemed to him most simple and credible.  An impure woman might just as well be a thief too. —­ I am only describing Hugh’s feelings.

But along with these feelings and thoughts, of mingled good and bad, came one feeling which he needed more than any —­ repentance.  Seated alone upon a fallen tree one day, the face of poor Harry came back to him, as he saw it first, poring over Polexander in the library; and, full of the joy of life himself, notwithstanding his past troubles, strong as a sunrise, and hopeful as a Prometheus, the quivering perplexity of that sickly little face smote him with