awakening,--and the rest of it."

He sighed wearily and turned, as if for relief from a bitter theme, to
the book in his hand. He read aloud, from the sonnet out of which they
had already been quoting:

'Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising--
Haply I think on thee; and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love--'

He broke off, and closed the book. "'For thy sweet love,'" he repeated.
"You see even this unhappy poet had his solace. I used to read those
lines and flatter myself they expressed my situation. There was a silly
song, too, that she pretended to like. You know it, of course,--a little
poem of Frank L. Stanton's." He went to the piano, and sang softly, in a
light baritone:

'Sometimes, dearest, the world goes wrong,
For God gives grief with the gift of song,
And poverty, too; but your love is more--'

Again he stopped short, and with a derisive laugh. "What an ass I was! As
if any happiness that came to Murray Davenport could be real or lasting!"

"Oh, never be disheartened," said Larcher. "Your time is to come; you'll
have your 'whack at life' yet."

"It would be acceptable, if only to feel that I had realized one or two