"Yes, Dr. Page died long ago," said the deep voice again; but the subject was resumed in a manner almost intimate; "his wife was living in--Malvern, I think. There was--it was common knowledge at the time--some domestic unhappiness late in life; or perhaps it would be more correct to say that it culminated late in life, for, like so many mighty issues, I believe it originated in a seeming trifle. He was a man acutely sensitive to noise, and his wife was decidedly a noisy woman. I remember his remarking once that if she but touched a cup it had a collision with all the china on the table, and that a newspaper in her hands became an instrument of torture. No doubt he could have controlled his irritability, but by all accounts his temper grew unbearable. However, the news of his death must have been a blow to the lady, for he died suddenly soon after they had separated. Death is a wondrous peacemaker. The gravest offence looks smaller in our eyes when it is too late to condone it." "Yes," assented Conrad; "'And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back, and be forgiven.'" "That is a beautiful thought," said the vicar, "or, speaking more strictly, I should say it is an ordinary thought beautified. From one of Owen Meredith's early poems, isn't it? But do you remember those lines of Coventry Patmore's to the dead? "'It is not true that Love will do no wrong. Poor Child! And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, And of those words your full avengers make? Poor Child, poor Child! And now, unless it be That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, O God, have Thou no mercy upon me! Poor Child!'" "Oh," exclaimed Conrad, "exquisite! I used to read Coventry Patmore all day. Do you know 'Departure'?--'With _huddled_, unintelligible phrase!' ... Ah! surely his hope was not vain--the Posterity he respected will respect him. But--but," he bubbled, "I am so glad I came! My dear sir, you enchant me; your recognition of Owen Meredith alone would make the interview memorable." "Ah!" returned Mr. Irquetson, with a whimsical smile, "there was once a time when I read much poetry--and wrote much verse; and I have a good memory. I remember"--his trained gaze took in the name, which he had forgotten, on the card--"I remember, Mr. Warrener, when I used to pray to be a poet." "Do you think prayers are ever answered?" inquired Conrad. "In my life I have sent up many prayers, and always with the attempt to persuade myself that some former prayer had been fulfilled. But I knew--I knew in my heart none ever had been. Things that I have wanted have come to me, but--I say it with all reverence--at the wrong time, as the means to buy unlimited toffee comes to a man when he has outgrown his taste for sweets." Mr. Irquetson's fine hand wandered across his brow.