He had a mortal dislike, poor Stransom, to lean
anniversaries, and loved them still less when
they made a pretence of a figure. Celebrations
and suppressions were equally painful to him, and
but one of the former found a place in his life.
He had kept each year in his own fashion the date
of Mary Antrim's death. It would be more to the
point perhaps to say that this occasion kept him:
it kept him at least effectually from doing anything
else. It took hold of him again and again with a
hand of which time had softened but never loosened
the touch. He waked to his feast of memory as
consciously as he would have waked to his
marriage-morn. Marriage had had of old but too
little to say to the matter: for the girl who was
to have been his bride there had been no bridal
embrace. She had died of a malignant fever after
the wedding-day had been fixed, and he had lost
before fairly tasting it an affection that promised
to fill his life to the brim.

Of that benediction, however, it would have
been false to say this life could really be emptied:
it was still ruled by a pale ghost, still ordered by

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