house.  And he went on to speak to her of a friend of his, who used to amuse himself with the notion that he would like to enter himself at a public school and go through his school life all over again.  There he had spent the happiest of his days; why should he not repeat them?  If only the boys would agree to treat him as one of themselves, why should he not be hail-fellow-well-met with them, and once more enjoy the fun of uproarious pillow-battles and have smuggled tarts and lemonade at night, and tame rabbits where no rabbits should be, and a profound hero-worship for the captain of the school Eleven, and excursions out of bounds, when his excess of pocket-money would enable him to stand treat all round?  “Why not?” this friend of his used to say.  “Was it so very impossible for one to get back the cares and interests, the ambitions, the amusements, the high spirits of one’s boyhood?” And if he now were to tell her that a far greater miracle had happened to himself?  That at an age when he had fancied he had done and seen most things worth doing and seeing, when the past seemed to contain everything worth having, and there was nothing left but to try how the tedious hours could be got over; when a listless ennui was eating his very heart out—­that he should be presented, as it were, with a new lease of life, with stirring hopes and interests, with a new and beautiful faith, with a work that was a joy in itself, whether any reward was to be or no?  And surely he could not fail to express to Lord Evelyn and to herself his gratitude for this strange thing.

These are but the harsh outlines of what, so far, he wrote; but there was a feeling in it—­a touch of gladness and of pathos here and there—­that had never before been in any of his writing, and of which he was himself unconscious.

But at this point he paused, and his breathing grew quick.  It was so difficult to write in these measured terms.  When he resumed, he wrote more rapidly.

What wonder, he made bold to ask her, if amidst all this bewildering change some still stranger dream of what might be possible in the future should have taken possession of him?  She and he were leagued in sympathy as regarded the chief object of their lives; it was her voice that had inspired him; might he not hope that they should go forward together, in close friendship at least, if there could be nothing more?  And as to that something more, was there no hope?  He could give himself no grounds for any such hope; and yet—­so much had happened to him, and mostly through her, that he could set no limit to the possibilities of happiness that lay in her generous hands.  When he saw her among others, he despaired; when he thought of her alone, and of the gentleness of her heart, he dared to hope.  And if this declaration of his was distressing to her, how easy it was for her to dismiss and forget it.  If he had dared too much, he had himself to blame.  In any case, she need not fear that