amazing how the clouds began to break.
Yes, I would do as she said. The end was
certain. But there was a reprieve of a
week, at the least. Heaven might then
send grace, or a remedy. Can those wise
men, who are always preaching, or canting,
in books, about waiting and putting your
trust in something beyond this world, or
who tell us that the darkest hour is the
one before day—can they be inventing?
Surely not. They must have known some
instances. Who can tell or guess at the
depths of arrogance and self-sufficiency?
and the taste for instructing your inferiors
may have blinded them to truth itself.
However, it is a reprieve. The mere perverse
eccentricity of human events may
work out a remedy, just as it so often
works out a disease. We hear of people
struggling with adversity which is checking
them at every turn. Why are there none
whom prosperity treats in the same
way? Simply because Satan is abroad,
walking the earth, and delights in that
game. . . . How strange are these theories
of mine—with a certain acuteness; but all
that is gone now. What a wreck and
waste of abilities! I may say that now,
speaking of myself as of another, and as
any one turning over these pages in a
century hence may remark. It will have all
ended somehow long before that. . . . Those
were good charming girls, but they are part
of the luxuries of life. I suppose that one
—Constance—has gone home to say she
persuaded me—a pardonable and girlish
vanity for which I do not blame her. It
was I who, in reality, suggested the train
of thought. She did not know what I was
thinking of and dreading—that lonely
journey home, the deadly imprisonment in
the railway carriage. It was a welcome
deliverance, that resource. . . .

Two o'clock.— I feel so much more tranquil
now. So much rest—a sort of unnatural
calmness, and the waves seem to have
gone down about me. A little exertion
and force of will has done this. It is
surprising how much that is under control,
even under the most desperate circumstances.
I could tell some of these despairing
gamesters, who think they are
utterly wretched—that nothing is left for
them—that Fate is capricious; that, when
they have left fifty miles of country between
them and this place, the thing will
assume quite another aspect, the loss will
dwindle down into a misfortune that may,
by some agency, unknown but still possible,
be repaired. If people could only be
brought to look at things rationally, calmly,
as I do now, how the flame colour would
fade out, how the angles and rough edges
would be smoothed away! Yes, I feel
quite tranquil now, prepared for the worst;
but still, not without hope. Here do I now
repeat Dora's little prayer, which comes
appropriately for one starting on a journey
like me:

"O Lord! Thou who dost guide the ship
over the waters, and dost bring safe to its
journey's end the fiery train, look down on
me in this distant land. Save me from harm
of soul or body; give me back health and
strength, that I may serve Thee more faithfully,
and be able to bring others dependent
on me to serve Thee also, and add to Thy
glories! Amen."

Six o'clock.—When I said that prayer
first, I little thought—no matter now.
Everything is packed. Let me go! Heaven
forgive those who sent me here to reap this
crop of wretchedness! What have I done to
deserve this? . . . . There is the cab. . . .
I met them at the station, and fortunately
escaped falling in with Grainger; of course
it will be said that I feared him. That
would be a falsehood that I would cram
down the throat of any man who said it.
The false world has but one way of reading
everything. If you are delicate and considerate,
you are afraid. I wished to have
peace, to get away in quiet, I did on my
soul, even though there might be demons
dressed up in the livery of guards and
porters. The two girls and their father
were there. He had his hand out, as it
were patronising a school boy who had
behaved well.

"Well done," he said, "I admire you
for this. My Constance is never to be
resisted when she has set her mind on a
thing."

The world again—it assumes everything
to be its work. Something happens after
something that it did. Ergo, it was the
cause.

"We have a nice carriage," he went on,
"and we shall so enjoy ourselves. I declare
I am quite in spirits again. Even now I
am sure you think it a trifle—what's a
hundred or two to happiness—to English
home and beauty—you'll work it off in a
few months. Strong hands, sir, and strong
hearts do everything."

Work it off in a few months! That was
his friendly scheme. Had all his generosity
melted away into that—not that I cared—or
that I would not have taken up his money,