He stood there as still as a rock--with his secret. Not the secret of
the year's work, which was to be divulged to his wife and through her
to the world; but the secret which for some years had been growing in
his life and which would, he hoped, never grow into the open--to be
seen of her and of all men.

The sentimental country hat now looked as though it might have been
worn purposely to help out a disguise, as the more troubled man behind
the scenes makes up to be the happier clown. It became an absurdity, a
mockery, above his face grave, stern, set of jaw and eye. He was no
longer the student buried among his books nor human brother to toiling
brothers. He had not the slightest thought of service to mankind left
in him, he was but a man himself with enough to think of in the battle
between his own will and blood.

And behind him among the dark evergreens went on that Pilgrimage of
the Years--with the feet of the Pities and the Constancies.

Moments passed; he did not stir. Then there was a slight noise on the
other side of the tree, and his nature instantly stepped back into his
outward place. He looked through the boughs. She had returned and was
standing with her face also turned toward the sunset; it was very
pale, very still.

Such darkness had settled on the valley now that the green she wore
blent with the green of the fir. He saw only her white face and her
white hands so close to the branches that they appeared to rest upon
them, to grow out of them: he sadly thought of one of his prints of
Egypt of old and of the Lady of the Sacred Tree. Her long
backward-sweeping plume of green also blent with the green of the