Rudyard Kipling 157 whine when my punishment comes. What can I do now, before the light goes?” There was no answer. Dick waited till he could regain some sort of control over himself. His hands were shaking, and he prided himself on their steadiness; he could feel that his lips were quivering, and the sweat was running down his face. He was lashed by fear, driven forward by the desire to get to work at once and accomplish something, and maddened by the refusal of his brain to do more than repeat the news that he was about to go blind. “It’s a humiliating exhibition,” he thought, “and I’m glad Torp isn’t here to see. The doctor said I was to avoid mental worry. Come here and let me pet you, Binkie.” The little dog yelped because Dick nearly squeezed the bark out of him. Then he heard the man speaking in the twilight, and, doglike, understood that his trouble stood off from him — “Allah is good, Binkie. Not quite so gentle as we could wish, but we’ll discuss that later. I think I see my way to it now. All those studies of Bessie’s head were nonsense, and they nearly brought your master into a scrape. I hold the notion now as clear as crystal, — ‘the Melancholia that transcends all wit.’ There shall be Maisie in that head, because I shall never get Maisie; and Bess, of course, because she knows all about Melancholia, though she doesn’t know she knows; and there shall be some drawing in it, and it shall all end up with a laugh. That’s for myself. Shall she giggle or grin? No, she shall laugh right out of the canvas, and every man and woman that ever had a sorrow of their own shall — what is it the poem says? — “Understand the speech and feel a stir Of fellowship in all disastrous fight. “In all disastrous fight’? That’s better than painting