unexplored life beyond.

And so the days went on, and though he was impatient and restless, yet
indoors his work was congenial to him, and out of doors the sun was
bright, and all the while a certain little god lay hidden, speaking no
articulate word, but waiting with a mischievous patience for the final
overthrow of one more poor mortal.

At last the old postmistress, whom he had almost come to regard as
cherishing a personal grudge against him, ceased to repulse him, and,
after his seven years of famine, the years of abundance set in. For the
space of three weeks letters from Venice lay waiting for him almost every
alternate morning, and the heathery slopes between the farm and the
village grew familiar with the spectacle of a tall thin man in a rough
tweed suit struggling, as he walked, with sheets of foreign paper which
the wind was doing its best to filch away from him.

The following extracts from these letters contain such portions of them
as are necessary to our subject:--

* * * * *

'CASA MINGHETTI 2, GRAND CANAL,

'VENICE, _August_ 6.

'MY DEAR EUSTACE--I can only write you a very scrappy letter to-day, for
we are just settling into our apartment, and the rooms are strewn in the
most distracting way with boxes, books, and garments; while my maid,
Félicie, and the old Italian woman, Caterina, who is to cook and manage