That was only three weeks ago. Only three weeks ago I still had it in my power to act. I am sure--I don't know why I am sure, but I _am_ sure--that I could have deterred him. For all that one can gather from the brief note he left behind, it seems he had no special, definite motive; he had met with no losses, got into no scrape; he was simply tired and sick of life and of himself. "I have no friends," he wrote. "Nobody will care. People don't like me; people avoid me. I have wondered why; I have tried to watch myself, and discover; I have tried to be decent. I suppose it must be that I emit a repellent fluid; I suppose I am a 'bad sort.'" He had a morbid notion that people didn't like him, that people avoided him! Oh, to be sure, there were the Bunns and the Krausskopfs and their ilk, plentiful enough: but he understood what it was that attracted _them_. Other people, the people _he_ could have liked, kept their distance--were civil, indeed, but reserved. He wanted bread, and they gave him a stone. It never struck him, I suppose, that they attributed the reserve to him. But I--I knew that his reserve was only an effect of his shyness; I knew that he wanted bread: and that knowledge constituted my moral responsibility. I didn't know that his need was extreme; but I have tried in vain to absolve myself with the reflection. I ought to have made inquiries. When I think of that afternoon in St. James's Street--only three weeks ago--I feel like an assassin. The vision of him, as he stopped and looked after me--I can't banish it. Why didn't some good spirit move me to turn back and overtake him? It is so hard for the mind to reconcile itself to the irretrievable. I can't shake off a sense that there is something to be done. I can't realise that it is too late. Song By Dollie Radford I could not through the burning day In hope prevail, Beside my task I could not stay If love should fail. Nor underneath the evening sky, When labours cease, Fold both my tired hands and lie At last in peace. Ah! what to me in death or life Could then avail? I dare not ask for rest or strife If love should fail. A Landscape By Alfred Thornton [Illustration: A Landscape] Passed By Charlotte M. Mew "Like souls that meeting pass, And passing never meet again." Let those who have missed a romantic view of London in its poorest quarters--and there will romance be found--wait for a sunset in early winter. They may turn North or South, towards Islington or Westminster, and encounter some fine pictures and more than one aspect of unique beauty. This hour of pink twilight has its monopoly of effects. Some of them may never be reached again.