Mr. Britton smiled, one of his slow, sad, sweet smiles that Darrell loved to watch, that seemed to dawn in his eyes and gradually to spread until every feature was irradiated with a tender, beneficent light.
"I once thought as you do," he said, gently, "but after years of wandering, I find that the place most sacred to me now is that hallowed by the bitterest agony of my life."
Without replying Darrell unconsciously drew nearer to his friend, and a brief silence followed, broken by Mr. Britton, who inquired, in a lighter tone,—
"What is the other reason for your constant application to your work? You said there were two."
Darrell bowed his head upon his hands as he answered in a low, despairing tone,—
"To stop thinking, thinking, thinking; it will drive me mad!"
"I have been there, my boy; I know," Mr. Britton responded; then, after a pause, he continued:
"Something in the tenor of your last letter made me anxious to come to you. I thought I detected something of the old restlessness. Has the coming of spring, quickening the life forces all around you, stirred the life currents in your own veins till your spirit is again tugging at its fetters in its struggles for release?"
With a startled movement Darrell raised his head, meeting the clear eyes fixed upon him.