that Raeburn had in hand was quite lacking in its close; the writer
had somehow been lifted into a higher, purer atmosphere, and if his
pen flew less rapidly over the paper, it at any rate wrote words
which would long outlive the mere overflow of an angry heart.

Coming back to the world of realities at last somewhere in the
small hours, he found his fire out, a goodly pile of letters ready
for his signature, and his little amanuensis fast asleep in her
chair. Reproaching himself for having allowed her to sit up, he
took her in his strong arms as though she had been a mere baby, and
carried her up to her room so gently that she never woke. The next
morning she found herself so swathed in plaids and rugs and
blankets that she could hardly move, and, in spite of a bad
headache, could not help beginning the day with a hearty laugh.

Raeburn was not a man who ever let the grass grow under his feet,
his decisions were made with thought, but with very rapid thought,
and his action was always prompt. His case excited a good deal of
attention; but long before the newspapers had ceased to wage war
either for or against him, long before the weekly journals had
ceased to teem with letters relating to the lawsuit, he had formed
his plans for the future. His home was to be completely broken up,
Erica was to go to Paris, his wife was to live with his sister,
Mrs. Craigie, and her son, Tom, who had agreed to keep on the
lodgings in Guilford Terrace, while for himself he had mapped out
such a programme of work as could only have been undertaken by a
man of "Titanic energy" and "Herculean strength," epithets which
even the hostile press invariably bestowed on him. How great the
sacrifice was to him few people knew. As we have said before, the
world regarded him as a target, and would hardly have believed that