and now upon the other. At every repetition of the horrid
contact each instinctively repelled it with the greater

haste; and the process, natural although it was, began to
tell upon the nerves of the companions. Macfarlane made some

ill-favoured jest about the farmer's wife, but it came
hollowly from his lips, and was allowed to drop in silence.

Still their unnatural burden bumped from side to side; and
now the head would be laid, as if in confidence, upon their

shoulders, and now the drenching sack-cloth would flap icily
about their faces. A creeping chill began to possess the

soul of Fettes. He peered at the bundle, and it seemed
somehow larger than at first. All over the country-side, and

from every degree of distance, the farm dogs accompanied
their passage with tragic ululations; and it grew and grew

upon his mind that some unnaturalmiracle had been
accomplished, that some nameless change had befallen the dead

body, and that it was in fear of their unholy burden that the
dogs were howling.

'For God's sake,' said he, making a great effort to arrive at
speech, 'for God's sake, let's have a light!'

Seemingly Macfarlane was affected in the same direction; for,
though he made no reply, he stopped the horse, passed the

reins to his companion, got down, and proceeded to kindle the
remaining lamp. They had by that time got no farther than

the cross-road down to Auchenclinny. The rain still poured
as though the deluge were returning, and it was no easy

matter to make a light in such a world of wet and darkness.
When at last the flickering blue flame had been transferred

to the wick and began to expand and clarify, and shed a wide
circle of misty brightness round the gig, it became possible

for the two young men to see each other and the thing they
had along with them. The rain had moulded the rough sacking

to the outlines of the body underneath; the head was distinct
from the trunk, the shoulders plainly modelled; something at

once spectral and human riveted their eyes upon the ghastly
comrade of their drive.

For some time Macfarlane stood motionless, holding up the
lamp. A nameless dread was swathed, like a wet sheet, about

the body, and tightened the white skin upon the face of
Fettes; a fear that was meaningless, a horror of what could

not be, kept mounting to his brain. Another beat of the
watch, and he had spoken. But his comrade forestalled him.

'That is not a woman,' said Macfarlane, in a hushed voice.
'It was a woman when we put her in,' whispered Fettes.

'Hold that lamp,' said the other. 'I must see her face.'
And as Fettes took the lamp his companion untied the

fastenings of the sack and drew down the cover from the head.
The light fell very clear upon the dark, well-moulded

features and smooth-shaven cheeks of a too familiar
countenance, often beheld in dreams of both of these young

men. A wild yell rang up into the night; each leaped from
his own side into the roadway: the lamp fell, broke, and was

extinguished; and the horse, terrified by this unusual
commotion, bounded and went off toward Edinburgh at a gallop,

bearing along with it, sole occupant of the gig, the body of
the dead and long-dissected Gray.

THE STORY OF A LIE
CHAPTER I - INTRODUCES THE ADMIRAL

WHEN Dick Naseby was in Paris he made some odd acquaintances;
for he was one of those who have ears to hear, and can use

their eyes no less than their intelligence. He made as many
thoughts as Stuart Mill; but his philosophyconcerned flesh

and blood, and was experimental as to its method. He was a
type-hunter among mankind. He despised small game and

insignificant personalities, whether in the shape of dukes or
bagmen, letting them go by like sea-weed; but show him a

refined or powerful face, let him hear a plangent or a
penetrating voice, fish for him with a living look in some

one's eye, a passionategesture, a meaning and ambiguous
smile, and his mind was instantaneously awakened. 'There was

a man, there was a woman,' he seemed to say, and he stood up
to the task of comprehension with the delight of an artist in

his art.
And indeed, rightly considered, this interest of his was an

artistic interest. There is no science in the personal study
of human nature. All comprehension is creation; the woman I

love is somewhat of my handiwork; and the great lover, like
the great painter, is he that can so embellish his subject as

to make her more than human, whilst yet by a cunning art he
has so based his apotheosis on the nature of the case that

the woman can go on being a true woman, and give her
character free play, and show littleness, or cherish spite,

or be greedy of common pleasures, and he continue to worship
without a thought of incongruity. To love a character is

only the heroic way of understanding it. When we love, by
some noble method of our own or some nobility of mien or

nature in the other, we apprehend the loved one by what is
noblest in ourselves. When we are merely studying an

eccentricity, the method of our study is but a series of
allowances. To begin to understand is to begin to

sympathise; for comprehension comes only when we have stated
another's faults and virtues in terms of our own. Hence the

proverbial toleration of artists for their own evil
creations. Hence, too, it came about that Dick Naseby, a

high-minded creature, and as scrupulous and brave a gentleman
as you would want to meet, held in a sort of affection the

various human creeping things whom he had met and studied.
One of these was Mr. Peter Van Tromp, an English-speaking,

two-legged animal of the international genus, and by
profession of general and more than equivocal utility. Years

before he had been a painter of some standing in a colony,
and portraits signed 'Van Tromp' had celebrated the greatness

of colonial governors and judges. In those days he had been
married, and driven his wife and infant daughter in a pony

trap. What were the steps of his declension? No one exactly
knew. Here he was at least, and had been any time these past

ten years, a sort of dismalparasite upon the foreigner in
Paris.

It would be hazardous to specify his exact industry.
Coarsely followed, it would have merited a name grown

somewhat unfamiliar to our ears. Followed as he followed it,
with a skilful reticence, in a kind of social chiaroscuro, it

was still possible for the polite to call him a professional
painter. His lair was in the Grand Hotel and the gaudiest

cafes. There he might be seen jotting off a sketch with an
air of some inspiration; and he was always affable, and one

of the easiest of men to fall in talk withal. A conversation
usually ripened into a peculiar sort of intimacy, and it was

extraordinary how many little services Van Tromp contrived to
render in the course of six-and-thirty hours. He occupied a

position between a friend and a courier, which made him worse
than embarrassing to repay. But those whom he obliged could

always buy one of his villainous little pictures, or, where
the favours had been prolonged and more than usually

delicate, might order and pay for a large canvas, with
perfect certainty that they would hear no more of the

transaction.
Among resident artists he enjoyed celebrity of a non-

professional sort. He had spent more money - no less than
three individual fortunes, it was whispered - than any of his

associates could ever hope to gain. Apart from his colonial
career, he had been to Greece in a brigantine with four brass