he had dug deep into his capital. Down past the square ran a cool avenue
of beeches to the water, and he could see his yacht at anchor. On the
other side of the water, far down the shore, was a house which had been
begun as a summer cottage, and had ended in being a mansion. A few
Moorish pillars, brought from Algiers for the decoration of the entrance,
had necessitated the raising of the roof, and then all had to be in
proportion, and the cottage became like an appanage to a palace.
So it had gone, and he had cared so little about it all, and for the
consequences. He had this day secured Kathleen from absolute poverty, no
matter what happened, and that had its comfort. His eyes wandered among
the trees. He could see the yellow feathers of the oriole and catch the
note of the whippoorwill, and from the great church near the voices of
the choir came over. He could hear the words "Lord, now lettest thou thy
servant depart in peace, according to thy word."

Depart in peace--how much peace was there in the world? Who had it? The
remembrance of what Kathleen said to him at the door--"I suppose I ought
to kiss you"--came to him, was like a refrain in his ears.

"Peace is the penalty of silence and inaction," he said to himself
meditatively. "Where there is action there is no peace. If the brain
and body fatten, then there is peace. Kathleen and I have lived at
peace, I suppose. I never said a word to her that mightn't be put down
in large type and pasted on my tombstone, and she never said a word to
me--till to-day--that wasn't like a water-colour picture. Not till
to-day, in a moment's strife and trouble, did I ever get near her. And
we've lived in peace. Peace? Where is the right kind of peace? Over
there is old Sainton. He married a rich woman, he has had the platter of
plenty before him always, he wears ribbons and such like baubles given by
the Queen, but his son had to flee the country. There's Herring. He