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It was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. There

was something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter

morning that seemed to bring him back his joyousness and his

ardour for life. But it was not merely the physical conditions of

environment that had caused the change. His own nature had

revolted against the excess of anguish that had sought to maim

and mar the perfection of its calm. With subtle and finely

wrought temperaments it is always so. Their strong passions must

either bruise or bend. They either slay the man, or themselves

die. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The loves and

sorrows that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude.

Besides, he had convinced himself that he had been the victim of

a terror-stricken imagination, and looked back now on his fears

with something of pity and not a little of contempt.