Alas! the power of the dead is but the power of the ideal, at once the strongest and the weakest force in the world,--a power, indeed, that prevails, but which may in some moments be shattered by the frailest whisper of the real. Isabel was calling, and Theophil was mad to go. Come back he might, but go he must, he would. Yes! he was going. There was only one possible way of spending that fevered night--in the train; and it was in the train, speeding on to London and to Isabel, his heart on fire, his eager eyes wasting themselves on the flying darkness, that Theophil spent it. Purposes he had none, only a desire,--just to see Isabel again. That immediate future was too effulgent for him to think of anything beyond it. He would see Isabel again! From a distant starry name, withdrawn into the abysses of heaven, she would turn again to woman and a wonderful nearness. The thought of being once again in a little room together enveloped him in a cloud of sweetness, as though the train were passing through hidden orchards. Isabel! Isabel! don't you hear love's wings beating towards you across the night? Have you not just awakened suddenly from your first sleep in the rosebush where you lie, and said: "Surely out there across the silent woods and meadows, where the night swallows London like a camp-fire, a train, a moving street of lighted windows, is speeding through the darkness and the dew, and in one of those little travelling rooms sits Theophil with his eyes fixed on me"? Was it Jenny's name that Theophil was thus taking to Isabel? No, not Jenny's name. Never Jenny's name! He was going to look on Isabel again--that was all. Perhaps he would die with the mere joy of seeing her again--and then he would not need to think of the future. Yes! the deeps of his soul had wanted her as much as that. It was about half-past six as he reached London; and though it was impossible to call on her for some hours yet, Theophil drove straight to Isabel's little square, shuttered and still in the early-risen London morning. His eyes chose the second storey for hers, and picked out two dainty windows as her rooms. He half expected to see the blind suddenly drawn aside and her face, a sleepy flower, bloom through the curtains. He lingered awhile, loving each individual brick of the house with his eyes, and then, kissing his hands to the sleeping windows, he rejoined his cab, which he had left at the street corner, shy of awaking the hushed square with its clatter. He gave Isabel till ten o'clock, which was perhaps hardly enough for a young London lady's toilette and breakfast, and then called. A pleasant housemaid answered the bell, and told him that Miss Strange was away, and was not expected till to-morrow. Here was a surprise. He had never even thought of that possibility. Begging leave to write Miss Strange a note, he presently found himself in Isabel's room. It was the same his eyes had blessed from the street.