I bent on the thought, and picked up the fallen book from the floor. It was one of those with which Lord Skene had furnished me from the library of his deceased young neighbour--a volume of “Armadale” by Wilkie Collins. I remember it well, a story containing a mystery something analogous with that which was vexing my life. Turning to the title-page, I found inscribed on it a name, George Thesiger--the George, without doubt, of the letter. And he, too, was dead--no hope of enlightenment there--had closed the book perhaps for the last time on a mystery more real and tragic than any contained in its pages. They must have been close friends, those two. I put the book gently away, and fell into frowning thought again. Not all I could learn or discover had brought me one step nearer the truth of my own identity. I might trace out others; myself I could not trace. My name, like Peter Schlemihl’s body, threw no shadow. I suppose, in the end, I must have fallen asleep where I sat, for I was suddenly conscious of the sound of voices outside the lodge. I rubbed my eyes--it was broad daylight in the room, and shiveringly cold. I staggered to my feet, a stale spectre of nightmare, and walked unsteadily to the window. There was a thin fleece of snow fallen on the grass, and sharply defined on it stood the figures of Johnny and Miss Christmas. Now I don’t know what influence was at work in me; but quite suddenly and strangely, seeing the girl, my eyes flushed hot and wet. I set my teeth, and gave myself a good curse for my folly; but there it was, and I could not but be conscious of a fierce pleasure in it. I suppose I had been a bit overwrought--spectre-ridden; and this vision touched me like balm. I felt like one who wakes from a dream of damnation to hear the birds singing. She was so young and happy and fresh; so detached from the sordid realism of my story; so remote from me at last. I had never thought her worth my consideration until she was risen above it; and now I was feeling like a child, who, having wandered in the track of some absorbing interest, wakes to the sudden realisation that he is lost. It was just the primal need bubbling in me. My mother was taken from me, true; but perhaps the more for that did I wail for a skirt to cling to. The two seemed to be in intimate talk, and Johnny’s strained squeak of a laugh reached me irresistibly. A misty sun jewelled the snow, and there were flowers sparkling, and fountains showering, and the rich throats of birds choiring among the trees--but all only in seeming; for love full-hearted has but to look down, and there is a garden sprung about her feet.