" Where, when the gods would be crueJ,
Do they go for a torture ? Where
Plant thorns, set pain as a jewel ?
Ah ! not in the flesh, not there I
'• The racks of earth and the rods
Are weak as foam on the sands;
In the heart is the prey for gods.
Who crucify hearts, not hands."
The train steams slowly into Egworth station, and j.''eiix
Brown, springing on to the platform, looks lazily around
him. The place somehow seems changed—brighter, in a
manner more friendly. It was on a bleak and cold winter's
day he had left it. Now the air is clear and bright; there
is even a suspicion of warmth In the air. Snows are for¬
gotten, and all things have broken Into life, and seem to
rejoice with open gladness In the certainty that " Spring
comes slowly up this way."
Then, In that past, most ■wretched time, all had been
winter with him, and he had sworn to himself on
leaving The Chevies that no earthly power should In¬
duce him ever to set foot again upon the threshold
of the house where she might be. He had suffered
cruelly; but now he was done with her. So he thought
then! She had bidden him " forget:" it was her last
word, and he would religiously obey it. And for almost
a week he believed that this thing might be possible to
him. She was, she should be, naught to him any more
" She was sweet to me once, who am fled and escaped from the rage of her
Such a quotation, and others of Its kind, he had muttered
to himself, and had tried honestly to believe in them as