left the house without seeing Jane a second time.
She would have promised anything now. Seeing that life had but one path of happiness for her, the path hopelessly closed, what did it matter by which of the innumerable other ways she accomplished her sad journey? For an instant, whilst Sidney was still speaking, she caught a gleam of hope in renunciation itself, the kind of strength which idealism is fond of attributing to noble natures. A gleam only, and deceptive; she knew it too well after the day spent by her grandfather’s side, encouraging, at the expense of her heart’s blood, all his revived faith in her. But she would not again give way. The old man should reap fruit of her gratitude, and Sidney should never suspect how nearly she had proved herself unworthy of his high opinion.
She had dreamed her dream, and on awaking must be content to take up the day’s duties. Just in the same way, when she was a child at Mrs. Peckover’s, did not sleep often bring a vision of happiness, of freedom from bitter tasks, and had she not to wake in the miser-
