for dizziness; then they were again at peace, and the Brother's confidence rang out. 'Oh, we shall meet!'
'Here, do you mean?'
'Yes—and I dare say in the world too.'
'But we shan't recognise or know,' said Dane.
'In the world, do you mean?'
'Neither in the world nor here,'
'Not a bit—not the least little bit, you think?'
Dane turned it over. 'Well, so it is that it seems to me all best to hang together. But we shall see.'
His friend happily concurred. 'We shall see.' And at this, for farewell, the Brother held out his hand.
'You're going?' Dane asked.
'No, but I thought you were.'
It was odd, but at this Dane's hour seemed to strike—his consciousness to crystallise. 'Well, I am. I've got it. You stay?' he went on.
'A little longer.'
Dane hesitated. 'You haven't yet got it?'
'Not altogether—but I think it's coming.'
'Good!' Dane kept his hand, giving it a final shake, and at that moment the sun glimmered again through the shower, but with the rain still falling on the hither side of it and seeming to patter even more in the brightness. 'Hallo—how charming!'
The Brother looked a moment from under the high arch—then again turned his face to our friend. He gave this time his longest, happiest sigh. 'Oh, it's all right!'
But why was it, Dane after a moment found himself wondering, that in the act of separation his own hand was so long retained? Why but through a queer phenomenon of change, on the spot, in his companion's face—change that gave it another, but an increasing and above all a much more familiar identity, an identity not beautiful, but more and more distinct, an identity with that of his servant, with the most conspicu-
