had he seen her come into Park Lane—­the vision became real—­than he felt he could not go up and speak to her.  If he had met her by accident, perhaps he might; but to watch her, to entrap her, to break in on her wished-for isolation under false pretences—­all that he suddenly felt to be impossible.  He could follow her with his heart; but the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand, the smile of her calm, beautiful, dark eyes, were as remote for him as if she, too, were beyond the broad Atlantic.

He was not much given to introspection and analysis; daring the past two months more especially he had been far too busy to be perpetually asking “Why? why?”—­the vice of indolence.  It was enough that, in the cold and the wet, there was a fire in his heart that kept him glad with thinking of the fair days to come; and that, in the foggy afternoons or the lonely nights when he was alone, and perhaps despondent or impatient over the stupidity or the contumacy he had had to encounter, there came to him the soft murmur of a voice from far away—­proud, sad, and yet full of consolation and hope: 

“—­But ye that might be clothed with all things pleasant,
Ye are foolish that put off the fair soft present,
That clothe yourself with the cold future air;
When mother and father, and tender sister and brother,
And the old live love that was shall be as ye,
Dust and no fruit of loving life shall be. 
—­She shall be yet who is more than all these were,
Than sister or wife or father unto us, or mother.”

He could hear her voice:  he could see the beautiful face grow pale with its proud fervor; he could feel the soft touch of her hand when she came forward and said, “Brother, I welcome you!”

And now that she was there before him, the gladness in his heart at the mere sight of her was troubled with a trembling fear and pain.  She was but a stone’s-throw in front of him; but she seemed far away.  The world was young around her; and she belonged to the time of youth and of hope; life, that he had been ready to give up as a useless and aimless thing, was only opening out before her, full of a thousand beauties, and wonders, and possibilities.  If only he could have taken her hand, and looked into her eyes, and claimed that smile of welcome, he would have been nearer to her.  Surely, in one thing at least they were in sympathy.  There was a bond between them.  If the past had divided them, the future would bring them more together.  Did not the Pilgrims go by in bands, until death struck down its victims here and there?

Natalie knew nothing of all this vague longing, and doubt, and pain in the breast of one who was so near her.  She was in a gay mood.  The morning was beautiful; the soft wind after the rain brought whiffs of scent from the distant rose-red hawthorn.  Though she was here under shadow of the trees, the sun beyond shone on the fresh and moist grass; and at the end of the glades there were glimpses of brilliant color in the foliage—­the glow of the laburnum, the lilac blaze of the rhododendron bushes.  And how still the place was!  Far off there was a dull roar of carriages in Piccadilly; but here there was nothing but the bleating of the sheep, the chirp of the young birds, the stir of the wind among the elms.  Sometimes he could now catch the sound of her voice.