80 The Light That Failed “When a cat has been out on the tiles all night,” said the Nilghai, in his beard, “I notice that she usually sleeps all day. This is natural history.” Dick staggered away rubbing his eyes and yawning. In the night-watches he was overtaken with an idea, so simple and so luminous that he wondered he had never conceived it before. It was full of craft. He would seek Maisie on a week-day, — would suggest an excursion, and would take her by train to Fort Keeling, over the very ground that they two had trodden together ten years ago. “As a general rule,” he explained to his chin-lathered reflection in the morning, “it isn’t safe to cross an old trail twice. Things remind one of things, and a cold wind gets up, and you feel said; but this is an exception to every rule that ever was. I'll go to Maisie at once.” Fortunately, the red-haired girl was out shopping when he arrived, and Maisie in a paint-spattered blouse was warring with her canvas. She was not pleased to see him; for week-day visits were a stretch of the bond; and it needed all his courage to explain his errand. “I know you’ve been working too hard,” he concluded, with an air of authority. “If you do that, you'll break down. You had much better come.” “Where?” said Maisie, wearily. She had been standing before her easel too long, and was very tired. “Anywhere you please. We'll take a train tomorrow and see where it stops. We'll have lunch somewhere, and I'll bring you back in the evening.” “If there’s a good working light tomorrow, I lose a day.” Maisie balanced the heavy white chestnut palette irresolutely. Dick bit back an oath that was hurrying to his lips. He had not yet learned patience with the maiden to whom her work was all in all. “You'll lose ever so many more, dear, if you use every