“I—I am stronger than you think,” he went on warily. “I think I can fathom the depth of your strength.” Just then the white light flashed across the ground and showed Plucritus in the act of throwing back his head and laughing silently. “Ha! what are you up to now?” asked Genius, hastily. But in an instant Plucritus had flashed the counter red light on the scene. “There is Virginius somewhere round about. I was laughing in the dark to be reminded of the farmer’s death. Thinking that justice at last would have its day.” “The farmer is not damned?” “Oh! excellently damned. Irrevocably damned,” and Plucritus laughed. “Now comes the farce ironical. I am most interested in my prayer. To-night and last night it has altered slightly. There are no more prayers for a prosperous business, no more prayers for a happy death-bed, no more prayers for a long life and lasting happiness. It’s all merged into one insane and childish cry ‘_God, bring him back—Oh, please, God, do!_’” “When will they know the actual facts?” “On Wednesday, I think. I am going to be merciful, you see, and bring him back. His crossing to Ireland simply meant more expense. The dock wall or the river would have answered any day. But that has nothing to do with my present quest. I have come to ask you for the last time, Will you go or stay?” Genius rose, and round him shone his own warm, dazzling lights all intermingled. “Had you been kinder I might have acted differently. But you forget, or reason is at fault. They say on this earth that such as I are born in pain; rightly or wrongly I would not presume to say. But as it is this suffering simply draws the sufferer nearer to me.” “And farther off from God.” “As you will. That is Virginius’s duty, none of mine. Why do you laugh?” “You speak so innocently, so childishly, you make me laugh.” “I understand you,” answered Genius, with some slight contempt. “It is useless bandying words with you.” “On the contrary, I laugh from the very bottom of my heart—or what in me corresponds to that function in the human breast. I laugh at a delicate joke, the flavour of which even you cannot appreciate.” “Enjoy it whilst you may—at a future time must come the reckoning day.” CHAPTER IX Thus the two years of prosperity had ended in deeper gloom than that in which they started. Christmas had gone by in the usual festivities, and rather strangely the whole family had met together on Christmas Day—for the last time. At the beginning of the New Year, Maggie and Deborah had gone away to stay with some friends at the other end of the town, and Maggie had gone two days previous to Deborah, who was going in for an examination on the second day. And Deborah, whose love for her father seemed to grow with each succeeding day, felt the short separation greatly.