He had dreaded the return to Haifa, and had postponed it as long as possible, knowing that his worthy citizens were all agog on the matter of his wife’s departure. His eyes were open to the mingled glances of scorn and sympathy which were cast upon him when he walked through the streets of the town; and he refused to give the explanation which was expected, yet could not very well be sought. He took his part in communal matters with the same energy as of old; but apart from his official duties he was as immovable as the Sphinx. Declining all the invitations which poured in upon him from the wealthier members of the corporation, he seemed to wish to lead the life of a recluse. His mother knew not whether to be displeased or grieved, but remonstrated with him vigorously on the subject one day. “This will never do,” she said, when for the third time he had absented himself from her weekly receptions. “You will make yourself unpopular if you persist in holding yourself aloof socially from the people. Besides, it isn’t manly, Lionel; you are wearing your heart on your sleeve.” So he promised to amend his ways; and the study saw less of him again; and joining more in the social life of the town, a little of his old buoyancy returned. But there always remained a sore place in his heart, only to be temporarily relieved by the balm of her precious letters. They arrived with every mail—those dear messages from his beloved. He had been back a full week before he could bring himself to visit his new house. The operations of the builders and decorators had been suspended during his stay in Jerusalem, and he had not yet given the order for them to resume their work. Making a sudden decision one morning, however, he walked quietly up the avenue of palm-trees, and unlocked the great oaken doors at the entrance to the hall. The house was, as he had anticipated, totally deserted, and his steps echoed and re-echoed drearily on the stone floor. Passing through the wonderful atrium, whose fame had already reached from one end of Syria to the other, he entered the boudoir, and removing the holland covering, sat down on one of the dainty chairs. What a hideous, ghastly mockery the whole place appeared! how it seemed to rise up and taunt him with its emptiness, with its bright but hollow splendour! He glanced about him with a shudder, and rested his head wearily on his hand. The decorations, to which he had given so much thought—for Patricia; the exquisite frescoes painted by an eminent Jewish artist—for Patricia; the beautifully carved bureau with its cunning design—for Patricia; the hangings of vieux rose—Patricia’s favourite hue; the little oil-painting of the Thames—Patricia’s own picture. All for Patricia, the one woman in the world to whom it was a joy to render homage; and she had been snatched from him by the crass stupidity of his people, by the ignorant prejudice of a stubborn race! Oh, the foolishness of men, to bow down to