They had driven home together in a profound silence, the elder man as deep in thought as the younger one. Penzance was thinking that there was a calmness in having reached sixty and in knowing that the pain and hunger of earlier years would not tear one again. And yet, he himself was not untorn by that which shook the man for whom his affection had grown year by year. It was evidently very bad—very bad, indeed. He wondered if he would speak of it, and wished he would, not because he himself had much to say in answer, but because he knew that speech would be better than hard silence.

 

“Stay with me to-night,” Mount Dunstan said, as they drove through the avenue to the house. “I want you to dine with me and sit and talk late. I am not sleeping well.”

 

They often dined together, and the vicar not infrequently slept at the Mount for mere² companionship's sake. Sometimes they read, sometimes went over accounts, planned economies, and balanced expenditures³. A chamber⁴ still called the Chaplain's room was always kept in readiness. It had been used in long past days, when a household chaplain had sat below the salt and left his patron's table before the sweets were served. They dined together this night almost as silently as they had driven homeward, and after the meal they went and sat alone in the library.

 

The huge room was never more than dimly lighted, and the far-off corners seemed more darkling than usual in the insufficient⁶ illumination of the far from brilliant lamps. Mount Dunstan, after standing⁷ upon the

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