“Too weak to change, though a mental hell To me the rôle of clown; A coward bound by a self-wrought spell, I wait the sound of the prompter’s bell Which rings the curtain down.” Sunday’s restfulness was in the air. Miss Hill and Westfield sat in the shade of the great tree in the yard, with books and newspapers about them. Nothing was more delightful to Westfield than to hear her read aloud. She had a voice of great natural sweetness, with no artificial notes in it. In truth there was no artifice in her character. The man beside her to-day was one of whom poor Kendall had often been bitterly jealous, a man of finer fibre than his rival, greater charm and graver defects. Older, he was also wiser, particularly in melancholy wisdom. “Read me something,” he said, “some wild wail from a tortured poet. There are always plenty, and I like ’en, no matter how woful they are. God bless the poets every one, high and humble. They help us out in the dreary business of life.” She read: “White-footed the snow comes, O’er the hills of beauty, Treading like a penitent Rough paths of duty.” “What an exquisite figure,”--he interrupted,--“the personification of the snow, with white feet, like a penitent.” He had once made a bright mark in the world of letters, then ceased to strive and later ceased to care, so it might be supposed that his commendation was of some value. “Miss Hill,” he said, with sudden animation, “what are you going to do with your life?” “Live it, if I am permitted.” “How?” “I have my dreams.” “Of what?” She smiled, looking far away, but kept silence. “I can’t make you out,” he said, a little peevishly. “I believe you have genius for literature, yet you seem to be perfectly indifferent about cultivating it. Were you like others one might suppose that love and marriage made up your dreams; but you are as indifferent to lovers as to possible fame. I don’t understand you.” “Well, it isn’t worth while to bother about me,” she said. “I shall be gone some day.” “I fear you will,” he answered, with feeling; “I have thought of it a thousand times, and dreaded to enter the house, lest I should not find you there. A sense of your impermanence is always with me. You don’t belong here in any sense, and I fear that Fate will not let you stay much longer. There is an unreality about your being here at all that is like the experiences we have when we sleep, real enough while they are occurring, but unreal to remember. Yes, you will be gone some day. Therefore, I shall take Fate by the forelock and go first, that I may not be here when you leave. I could not endure that. The very sight of the old house and this tree would then be intolerable to me.” His face and speech were impassioned, but the girl saw it not. That was what made her so exasperating to those whom she fascinated. She seemed incapable of seeing that she could fascinate. The truth was she was self-absorbed.