would
have to catch in the morning.

He was going to Dublin, and the servant knocked at the door at seven
o'clock; Ellen roused a little asking if he must go to Dublin. She
would like him to stay with her. But he could not stay, and she felt
she must give him his breakfast. While tying her petticoats she went to
the door of Ned's dressing-room asking him questions, for she liked to
talk to him while he was shaving. After breakfast they walked to the
station together, and she stood on the platform smiling and waving
farewells.

She turned home, her thoughts chattering like the sunshine among the
trees; she leaned over the low, crumbling walls and looked across the
water meadows. Two women were spending the morning under the trees;
they were sewing. A man was lying at length talking to them. This group
was part of external nature. The bewitching sunlight found a way into
her heart, and it seemed to her that she would never be happy again.

Ned had told her that he was not going to say anything about the
priests at this meeting. Ah, if she were only sure he would not attack
religion she would not mind him criticising the priests. They were not
above criticism; they courted criticism, approving of a certain amount
of lay criticism. But it was not the priests that Ned hated; it was
religion; and his hatred of religion had increased since he began to
read those books--she had seen him put one into his bag, and the rest
of the set were in his study. When she got home she paused a moment,
and, without knowing exactly why, she turned aside and did not go into
his study.

But next day the clock in the drawing-room stopped, and, wanting to
know the time, she went into the study and looked at the clock, trying
to keep her eyes from the bookcase. But in spite of herself she looked.
The books were there: they had been thrust so far back that she could
not read the name of the writer. Well, it did not matter, she did not
care to know the name of the writer--Ned's room interested her more
than the books. There was his table covered with his papers; and the
thought passed through her mind that he might be writing the book he
had promised her not to write. What he was writing was certainly for
the printer--he was writing only on one side of the paper--and one of
these days what he was writing would be printed.

The study was on the ground floor, its windows overlooking the garden,
and she glanced to see if the gardener were by, but