pressing stillness of an invalid bachelor's house.
I guessed well the nature, though not even vaguely the particulars of the revelations I was about to receive, from that fixed face of suffering that so oddly flushed stood out, like a portrait of Schalken's, before its background of darkness.
"It began," he said, "on the 15th of October, three years and eleven weeks ago, and two days—I keep very accurate count, for every day is torment. If I leave anywhere a chasm in my narrative tell me.
"About four years ago I began a work, which had cost me very much thought and reading. It was upon the religious metaphysics of the ancients."
"I know," said I; " the actual religion of educated and thinking paganism, quite apart from symbolic worship? A wide and very interesting field."
"Yes; but not good for the mind—the
