and garden there, which had long been unoccupied; a fancy possessed him that if, or when, Diana did write to him, he would answer her from Paris, so that they might meet there or in London, without the surveillance or comment of Dimitrius. Meanwhile, Dimitrius himself, a figure of impenetrable reserve and cold courtesy, let his visitors come and go as they listed, apparently living the life of a scientist absorbed in studies too profound to allow himself to be troubled or distracted by the opinions of the outer world. Midsummer Day, the Feast of St. John, and a day of poetic and superstitious observance, came at last and drifted along in a stream of gold and azure radiance, the sun sinking round as a rose in a sky without a cloud. To the last moment of its setting Dimitrius waited, watch in hand. All day long he had wandered aimlessly in the garden among his flowers, talking now and then to his gardeners, and stopping at every point where he could see the crystal dome of his laboratory shine clear like the uplifted minaret of some palace of the East, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he compelled himself to walk with a slow and indifferent mien when the moment arrived for him to return to the Château. His heart galloped like a run-away race-horse, while he forced his feet into a sauntering and languid pace as though he were more than oppressed by the heat of the day,--and he stopped for a moment to speak to his mother, whose reclining chair was in the loggia where she could enjoy the view of the gardens and the fountains in full play. “I am--” he said, and paused,--then went on--“I am going to the laboratory for an hour or two. If I am late for dinner, do not wait for me.” Madame Dimitrius, busy with some delicate lacework, looked up at him inquiringly. “Are you seeing Diana this evening?” she asked. He nodded assent. “Give her my love and tell her how glad I am that her days of solitude are over, and that I shall come to her to-morrow as soon as you will allow me.” He nodded again, and with a tender hand stroked the silver bandeaux of the old lady’s pretty hair. “After all, old age is quite a beautiful thing!” he said, and stooping, he kissed her on the brow. “It is, perhaps, wrong that we should wish to be always young?” He passed on then, and, entering his library, rang a bell. Vasho appeared. “Vasho, the hour has come!” he said, whereat Vasho, the dumb, uttered an inarticulate animal sound of terror. “Either I have succeeded, or I have failed. Let us go and see!” He paused for a moment, his eyes resting on the mysterious steel instrument, which, always working in its accustomed place on its block of crystal, struck off its tiny sparks of fire with unceasing regularity.