of crystalline whiteness, the snow-fields were stained and yellowish to the eye; hideous corners of corrugated roofs showed where the coverlet of white had slipped; all the raw discomfort of a thaw was in the air. To Charlie, both owing to his physical condition and his unspoken trouble, the heavy chilliness of the day was peculiarly oppressive; his mother also was detained indoors, and for an hour he was prey to the gloomiest reflections. It was all no use, so he told himself; since October he had heartily tried with all his power both to get better and to recapture the normal joy of living. But now, as so often happened, he had begun to slip back again; next week no doubt would tell a further tale of hardly-earned ground lost, and week would follow week, and he would slip back and back. Even if he pulled through, even if he became strong again, what was there in life for him worth recovering for? He had thought—deluded himself into thinking—that perhaps Sybil might come to care for him, but with sudden bitter intuition he guessed that he was really no nearer winning her love than he had been before he had been taken ill. Great compassion, the divine womanly instinct to help a man, had brought her out here; the improvement in his health, the successful combating of his disease, was due to that. But it was but a bitter gift she had brought him; it was as if she had brought him through some illness only to give him over to the hangman at the last. And she had not asked about the doctor's report. That seemed to him in his disordered frame of mind to clinch the matter. Instead she had gone off tobogganing with Bilton. True, she had refused him in the autumn, but how many marriages have been prefaced by that?
Charlie shivered slightly, and looked about him for a rug, for the damp of the day made a man chilly, where the dryness of far greater cold would have been but warming and invigorating. But he had not brought one out, and, saying
