kind to her that day—not in phrase, compliment, profession, but in manner, in look, and in soft and friendly tones.

For himself, he came home grave, almost morose. As he stood leaning on his own yard gate, musing in the watery moonlight all alone, the hushed, dark mill before him, the hill-environed hollow round, he exclaimed abruptly:

‘This won’t do! There’s weakness—there’s down-right ruin in all this. However,’ he added, dropping his voice, ‘the frenzy is quite temporary. I know it very well: I have had it before. It will be gone tomorrow.’