That panel of wainscot was, in fact, as worthy of preservation as those on which the early artists delineated the Madonna and Infant, and for which high prices are now paid. It was intensely--superlatively--human. Worn in slow time by a human head within which a great mind was working under the most unhappy conditions, it had the deep value attaching to inanimate things which have witnessed intolerable suffering. I am not a Roman Catholic, but I must confess that if I could be assured any particular piece of wood had really formed a part of the Cross I should think it the most valuable thing in the world, to which Koh-i-noors would be mud. I am a pagan, and think the heart and soul above crowns. That panel was in effect a cross on which a heart had been tortured for the third of a century, that is, for the space of time allotted to a generation. That mark upon the panel had still a further meaning, it represented the unhappiness, the misfortunes, the Nemesis of two hundred years. This family of Idens had endured already two hundred years of unhappiness and discordance for no original fault of theirs, simply because they had once been fortunate of old time, and therefore they had to work out that hour of sunshine to the utmost depths of shadow. The panel of the wainscot upon which that mark had been worn was in effect a cross upon which a human heart had been tortured--and thought can, indeed, torture--for a third of a century. For Iden had learned to know himself, and despaired. Not long after he had settled himself and closed his eyes the handle of the door was very softly turned, and Amaryllis stole in for her book, which she had forgotten. She succeeded in getting it on tiptoe without a sound, but in shutting the door the lock clicked, and she heard him kick the fender angrily with his iron-shod heel. After that there was utter silence, except the ticking of the American clock--a loud and distinct tick in the still (and in that sense vacant) room. Presently a shadow somewhat darkened the window, a noiseless shadow; Mrs. Iden had come quietly round the house, and stood in the March wind, watching the sleeping man. She had a shawl about her shoulders--she put out her clenched hand from under its folds, and shook her fist at him, muttering to herself, "Never _do_ anything; nothing but sleep, sleep, sleep: talk, talk, talk; never _do_ anything. That's what I hate." The noiseless shadow disappeared; the common American clock continued its loud tick, tick.