At last. And a broad new bridge too. And pair fully rustic, with elaborate rustic ornaments of curiously entwined and intertwisted tree branches. And, worst of all, such a confounded bit higher up the stream than where the old bridge had been.

And the path on the opposite side, too; new, new like the bridge, new and fashionable, a regular promenade path; belonging, no doubt, to the elaborate system of paths which his noble and beautiful hostess had for years woven, like a complicated network, through the woods around. Of course, like Charlotte in the "Elective Affinities," the fair châtelaine must needs have that passion for beautifying everything; like Charlotte, but not, oh dear! no, with any tender penchant for her husband's well-born friends. Well, well! He himself had never doubted the unapproachable virtue of My Lady: what if she now, tried her gentle hand ever so little at this, surely it was only the outcome of the excessive goodness of her chaste, and cool, and philanthropic heart.... Heart! ... And oh the wretched pain, the horrid, horrid sensation in my own heart. Who the mischief could be philanthropical if he felt like this? Perhaps this insane running and climbing has brought on a relapse. The story might then close where it began, and fair Lydia would come just in the nick of time to see that when people talk of a broken heart, they are not necessarily talking nonsense.... What rubbish, though! If my heart breaks, it will be because it has got some organic fault, and because I took champagne when I should not have done so.

He had dropped upon a bench by, the wayside, and there he crouched, almost bent double, pressing his handkerchief to his mouth, to prevent his moans from being heard in the silence of the darkening woods.

The attack passed away. Gradually the agonising pains grew less. With the physical anguish much of the fierce passion into which he had worked himself passed away too. In its stead he felt a terrible heaviness, a dull languor in all his limbs, and there was a sort of stupor about his brain.

Supposing it had given way, he mused. Fancy, sitting alone here in the wood, a dead man, for goodness knows how long, and then terrifying a poor wretch who chanced to pass this way first! This was not a pleasing thought. But this anyhow would have been the worst. Death in itself he did not dread. Why should he? Death was but the end of life. And life? His life? If he could say that his living harmed no one, except perhaps poor Konski whom he sometimes tormented by his wayward moods--yet, on the other hand, it gladdened no one, least of all himself. The few poor students or struggling artists would have their allowances paid out to them for the time fixed, whether he lived on or not, and a few public institutions were welcome to divide the residue between them. All that would be settled in the shortest and most business-like manner. Never a tear would be shed by any human being, unless perchance by old Konski. But no; it was impossible to think of the good, easy-going fellow in tears.

He was sitting at the foot of a spreading beech tree. A crow, perched on the top, uttered a shriek.

Bertram looked up with a grim smile. "Patience!" he said.

But it was not on his account that the crow had uttered that cry, but probably because somebody was approaching. He saw a lady coming down the side-path which led from the forest direct to his bench. Again, this convulsive pain at the heart! But he forced himself to look again; and no, it was not Lydia. Lydia was taller, and her blonde hair was of ashen hue; this lady's hair was dark, very dark. And the style of walking, too, was different, very different: an easy, even, step, making it appear as if she were floating down the somewhat steep path, although he could see the movement of the feet beneath the light summer dress. And now she had come quite close to him. She gave a little start, for, gazing up to the shrieking crow, she had not noticed him, and he had sprung up somewhat abruptly from the bench. But in a moment she was collected again, and the flush faded as quickly from her cheek as it had spread.

"Is, it possible?--Erna!"

"Uncle Bertram!"