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36 each day, each hour sets itself to wear away, to weaken, to carry off piecemeal;—and after having struggled, struggled with anguish to keep some few bits of all this which passes away, to pass in our turn."

Archer could read no more with patience. "It is a remarkable book," he commented with sincerity, and drew away from the table.

"Remarkable! You may venture as much," retorted the scholar, still bent over the melancholy pages, on which he seemed to batten. Then, slowly straightening himself, he closed the book and put it away in the desk. "The only book of its kind, and the deepest, the truest— These are only the crude material, but you shall see." He took a sip from his glass, wandered thoughtfully to the window,—which the old servant had closed,—and stood looking out. "It must be a calm night. The stars and the lights from the town—the reflections are very clear. It would be beautiful, but it is a symbol. Ah, 'this bank and shoal of time!' Out there in the dark are the whirlpools—and the channel"—he broke into muttered quotation:—