thoughtless of sleep and the commonplace duties of the morrow.

Since then he had mastered his Gibbon, knew him from end to end, and
joyed in him more than ever. Whenever he had a chance of obtaining
any of the writers, ancient or modern, to whom Gibbon refers, he
read them and added to his knowledge. About a year ago, he had
picked up an old Claudian, and the reading of the poet had settled
him to a task which he had before that doubtfully sought. He wanted
to write either a poem or a drama on some subject taken from the
"Decline and Fall," and now, with Claudian's help, he fixed upon
Stilicho for his hero. The form, he then decided, should be
dramatic. Upon "Stilicho" he had now been engaged for a year, and
to-night he is writing the last words of the last scene. Shortly
after twelve he has finished it, and, throwing down his pen, he
paces about the room with enviable feelings.

He had not as yet mentioned to Waymark the work he was engaged upon,
though he had confessed that he wrote verses at times. He wished to
complete it, and then read it to his friend. It was now only the
middle of the week, and though he had decided previously to wait
till his visit to Walcot Square next Sunday before saying a word
about "Stilicho," he could not refrain now from hastily penning a
note to Waymark, and going out to post it at once.

When the day came, the weather would not allow the usual walk with
Harriet, and Julian could not help feeling glad that it was so. He
was too pre-occupied to talk in the usual way with the girl, and he
knew how vain it would be to try and make her understand his state
of mind. Still, he went to see her as usual, and sat for an hour in
Mrs. Ogle's parlour. At times, throughout the week, he had thought