For no such soul lives in this tangled world But, like Achilles' heel, Hath in the quick a shaft too truly hurled-- Flesh growing round the steel. And with its outcome would come all Life's flood: Joy is so twined with pain, Sweetness and tears so blended in our blood, They will not part again. For at the last the heart grows round its grief, And holds it without strife: So used we are, we cry not for relief, For we know all of life. And this is why I kiss thy tear-wet eyes, Nor think thy grief so great. Thou untried child! at every fresh surprise Thy heart springs to the gate. HOWARD GLYNDON. "FOR PERCIVAL." CHAPTER XXXV. OF THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. [Illustration] Early in that December the landlady's daughter came home. Percival could not fix the precise date, but he knew it was early in the month, because about the eighth or ninth he was suddenly aware that he had more than once encountered a smile, a long curl and a pair of turquoise earrings on the stairs. He had noticed the earrings: he could speak positively as to them. He had seen turquoises before, and taken little heed of them, but possibly his friends had happened to buy rather small ones. He felt pretty certain about the long curl. And he thought there was a smile, but he was not so absolutely sure of the smile. By the twelfth he was quite sure of it. It seemed to him that it was cold work for any one to be so continually on the stairs in December. The owner of the smile had said, "Good-morning, Mr. Thorne." On the thirteenth a question suggested itself to him: "Was she--could she be--always running up and down stairs? Or did it happen that just when he went out and came back--?" He balanced his pen in his fingers for a minute, and sat pondering. "Oh, confound it!" he said to himself, and went on writing. That evening he left the office to the minute, and hurried to Bellevue street. He got halfway up the stairs and met no one, but he heard a voice on the landing exclaim, "Go to old Fordham's caddy, then, for you sha'n't--Oh, good gracious!" and there was a hurried rustle. He went more slowly the rest of the way, reflecting. Fordham was another lodger--elderly, as the voice had said. Percival went to his sitting-room and looked thoughtfully into his tea-caddy. It was nearly half full, and he calculated that, according to the ordinary rate of consumption, it should have been empty, and yet he had not been more sparing than usual. His landlady had told him where to get his tea: she said she found it cheap--it was a fine-flavored tea, and she always drank it. Percival supposed so, and wondered where old Fordham got his tea, and whether that was fine-flavored too.