Indifference to criticism, if based upon a simple consciousness of moral right, is a noble thing.  But indifference to criticism, taken in its ordinary, and especially its literary sense, is generally a very small thing, and resolves itself, for the most part, into a halting and one-sided kind of stoicism, meaning indifference to blame and ridicule, and never indifference to praise.  It is very convenient to the disappointed authorling; very effective, in the established writer; but it is mere vanity at the root, and equally contemptible in both.  For my part, I confess that I came to my trial as tremblingly as any poor caitiff to the fiery ordeal, and finding myself miraculously clear of the burning ploughshares, was quite as full of wonder and thankfulness at my good fortune.  For I found my purposes appreciated, and my best thoughts understood; not, it is true, without some censure, but it was censure tempered so largely with encouragement that I drew hope from it, and not despondency.  And then I thought of Hortense, and, picturing to myself all the joy it would have been to lay these things at her feet, I turned my face to the grass, and wept like a child.

Then, one by one, the ghosts of my dead hopes rose out of the grave of the past and vanished “into thin air” before me; and in their place came earnest aspirations, born of the man’s strong will.  I resolved to use wisely the gifts that were mine—­to sing well the song that had risen to my lips—­to “seize the spirit of my time,” and turn to noble uses the God-given weapons of the poet.  So should I be worthier of her remembrance, if she yet remembered me—­worthier, at all events, to remember her.

Thus the hours ebbed, and when I at length rose and turned my face homeward, the golden day was already bending westward.  Lower and lower sank the sun as the miles shortened; stiller and sweeter grew the evening air; and ever my lengthening shadow travelled before me along the dusty road—­wherein I was more fortunate than the man in the German story who sold his to the devil.

It was quite dusk by the time I gained the outskirts of the town, and I reflected with much contentment upon the prospect of a cosy bachelor dinner, and, after dinner, lamplight and a book.

“If you please, sir,” said Collins, “a lady has been here.”

Collins—­the same Collins who had been my father’s servant when I was a boy at home—­was now a grave married man, with hair fast whitening.

“A lady?” I echoed.  “One of my cousins, I suppose, from Effingham.”

“No, sir,” said Collins.  “A strange lady—­a foreigner.”

A stranger! a foreigner!  I felt myself change color.

“She left her name?” I asked.

“Her card, sir,” said Collins, and handed it to me.

I took it up with fingers that shook in spite of me and read:—­

MADLLE DE SAINTE AULAIRE.

I dropped the card, with a sigh of profound disappointment.