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ARIADNE. 201bit his tired senses into a poisonous irritationwhich he fancied was passion. But still when hewas in solitude he remembered, he regretted,almost he repented.Meanwldle about him the great world talkedof her wherever the arts were understoodbymen,and saluted her as a great artist.The laurelwas set like a sharp spear in her breast, andwas watered with her heart's blood, as withDaphne's.Hearing that, he strove to silence his conscience,saying " to himseff, Her genius is withher; it wdl console her in time.Ihave notharmed her, — so much."One night, on an impulse, he wrote to her,and sent it through me. They were but sevenwords:" Iam unworthy,butIthank you."Igave them to her. She wept over them andblessed them as other women weep over andbless the face of their firstborn. She was thankfulas other women are before some great gift ofhomage and of honour rendered to them in thesight of nations.