opportunity for their meeting would arise--and that was all. When
the moment came for leave-taking, Piers tried to put all his soul
into a look; but he failed, his eyes dropped, even as his tongue
faltered. And Irene Derwent was gone.

If, in the night that followed, a wish could have put an end to his
existence, Piers would have died. He saw no hope in living, and the
burden seemed intolerable. Love-anguish of one-and-twenty; we smile
at it, but it is anguish all the same, and may break or mould a
life.


CHAPTER VII


A week went by, and Piers was as far as ever from resuming his
regular laborious life. One day he spent in London. His father's
solicitor had desired to see him, in the matter of the legacy; Piers
received his money, and on the same day made over one hundred and
fifty pounds to Daniel Otway, whom he met by appointment; in
exchange, Daniel handed him a beautifully written I.O.U., which the
younger brother would pocket only with protest.

Another week passed. Piers no longer pretended to keep his usual
times; he wandered forth whenever home grew intolerable, and
sometimes snatched his only sleep in the four-and-twenty hours under
the hawthorn blossom of some remote meadow. His mood had passed into
bitterness. "I was well before; why did she interfere with me? She
did it knowing what would happen; it promised her amusement. I
should have kept to myself, and have been safe. She waylaid me. That