Times, asking by whose authority the advertisement was inserted, as in a dream, fetch my hat and jacket, and wander out over the fields and meadows, walkling stiffly and slowly through the deep snow-fall, on and on for miles and miles, my feet carrying me where they will. Why did I let him go without a warning? Why was I so mad as to leave him ignorant of Silvia's threats and vow to work him evil? For I know as surely as I am living that it is she who has done this thing. I was so confident, so sure, when he was with me it was so impossible to fear. I should have spoken when he went away. Did not my good angel call upon me to speak when I wished him good-bye? Supposing George has an accident on the road! supposing Paul is not at Rome when he gets there! Somehow I feel in my heart that any way he will get there too late. It was sure hand and a strong that struck that bold and open blow through the newspaper. That the same hand has reached him in Rome in some different way I cannot doubt. And Paul was always a little jealous of George. . . . But here I stand still to ask myself if it is likely that he will credit so monstrous a story. Granted that I had played him false, could I be so horribly quick in my treachery? Over hill and dale my feet leave their restless track; by frozen pool and ice-cold rill, by cheerful homestead and farm, through the wood and over the fir plantations I go, and the afternoon is closing in when I stand in my parlour and look up at the frosted trees overhead, and down the familiar walk, longing with an intensity of longing that shakes me like a leaf, to see him coming down the path to meet me, to hear the sound of his step on the snow. But not a sound comes to me—not even the faint chirp of a bird. There is not the ghostliest breath of air to ruffle the clear splendour of the boughs; nature is pulseless, voiceless, without heart, a great glittering shell that estranges and chills me. I cross the field of rye, that was so bare and brown a week ago, and reach home, tired in body, but
