aberrations of the human mind which wreck so many lives, for which no looker-on can account, and which make men and women a world’s wonder, had never come within the range of her experience. Rejecting the idea of inconstancy, Madoline was compelled to find some other reason for the indefinable change which had slowly been revealed to her since Gerald’s last home-coming. What could it be except the languor of ill-health, or, perhaps, the terrible satiety of a life which had so few duties, and so many indulgences, a life that called for no effort of mind, for not one act of self-denial? ‘Every man ought to have a career,’ she said to herself. ‘My poor Gerald has none; no ambition; nothing to hope for, or work for, or build upon. The new days of his life bring him nothing but old pleasures. He is getting weary and worn out in the very morning of existence. What will he be when the day begins to wane?’ She had been thinking of these things for a long time, and had determined upon opening her mind to her lover, seriously, candidly, without reserve, with all the outspoken freedom of one who deemed herself a part of his life, his second self. Here, in the face of these solemn heights, which seem ever typical of the loftier aims of life—all the more so, perhaps, because of that air of unattainableness which pervades them—she felt as if they were more alone, farther from all the sordid considerations of worldly wisdom than in the valley below. She could speak to him here from her heart of hearts. He was walking by her side along one of the narrow paths, just where a rustic fence separated the grounds of the hotel from the steep mountain side—walking somewhat listlessly, lost in a dreamy silence—when she put her arm gently through his and drew a little nearer to him. ‘Gerald dearest, I want to talk to you—seriously.’ He turned suddenly, and looked at her, with more of alarm in his countenance than she had anticipated. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ she said with a sweet smile. ‘I am not going to be severe. I am only anxious.’ ‘Anxious about what?’ ‘About you, dear love; about your health, mental and physical. You remember what you told me before you went to Canada.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Your trip did you good, did it not?’ ‘Worlds of good. I came home a whole man.’ ‘But since you came home the old feeling of languor has returned, has it not? You take so little interest in life; you look at everything with such a weary indifferent air.’