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202 ARIADNE.To me the words seemedbut poorand cold.Icould not tell then how he felt when hewrote them.Iheard from him long afterwards,when all was of no use.They did contain, indeed, perhaps the truestutterance that he had ever made. He felt hisownunworthiness,he who had been wrapped allhis days in the togaof a superb and indifferentand eontenqduous vanity, and the sense of itwounded and galled him; yet he thanked herbecause he had a heart in his breast, and because,as he said,menare not vile, they are onlychddren — children spoilt often by the world'sindulgence or by the world's injustice.He would go,Isay,inthe early morning, whennone of his own world were about, and standbefore the statue and think of her till a greatshame enteredinto him and a great regret.An angel comes once in then- lives to mostmen: seldom do they know their visitant; oftendo they thrust the door against it. Any way,itnever comes but once. He recognised the angelnow; nay, he had known it when first he hadopened his arms to it;but it had brought too