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ARIADNE. 119foul patrician jade wrung from him by treadingonhis wornheart,as a vine gathereronthebruisedand pressed-out grapes crushed in the vats atautumn.For so he soon told me, evenhe, himself, withthat cynical frankness which at times broke upfrom under the soft disguises of his usual words.Hehad nevercome to Rome;neveronce sincethat chill and bitter Lenten night when MaryxandIhad found the chamber empty, and Hermesin themoonlight alone.I,asking always people whomIknew,learnedthat he had never beenhiRome since then,norever once at Dai'la. It was not fear certainlywhich kept him from the city; but probablyitwas that sort of restless but fruitless and vagueremorse which is the repentance of such a manas he.For the difference between good and bad inmen lies less,Ithink, in what they do thaninhow they feel, and so lesshi act than conscience;and many a one amongst us could undo the evilhe has clone if only he woulcl not push away thepainit causes him, andhurry on leaving the past