But the ways of Nature are strange. She is very quiet; patient as death
itself. She holds her hand for years--sometimes for a generation--but she
strikes at last.

She is more cruel than man, or even than woman which is saying much, She
is the best friend we have, and the worst foe, for she never forgives an
outrage.

Nature raised her hand over this puny, whimpering child, Arthur Agar. She
never forgot a mother's selfish passion. She forgets nothing. When first
he opened his little pink lids upon the world he looked round with a
scared wonder in a pair of colourless blue-grey eyes; and that vague look
of expectation never left his eyes in later life. It almost seemed as if
the infant orbs could see ahead into the future--could discern the
lowering hand of outraged Nature.

This hand was suspended over the ill-fated, poorly-endowed head for
years, then Nature struck--hard.




CHAPTER V

AFTER NINETEEN YEARS

A sharp judgment shall be to them that be in high places.