the church, imprisoned and supplicating? They were like that cry
of pain, those eyes, the dark rims of the iris strangely expanding, and
her heart answered them, ignorant of what they said.

"You are thoughtful for me, dear; but no," she replied, "it isn't
necessary for you to interrupt."

He looked away from her: "I don't know that it's not necessary," he
said. After lunch they went into the garden and walked for a little in
the sunlight, in almost perfect silence. Once or twice, as though from
the very pressure of his absorption in her he created some intention of
speech and fancied that her lips had parted with the words, Augustine
turned his head quickly towards her, and at this, their eyes meeting, as
it were over emptiness, both he and she would flush and look away again.
The stress between them was painful. She was glad when he said that he
had work to do and left her alone.

Amabel went to the drawing-room and took her chair near the table. A
sense of solitude deeper than she had known for years pressed upon her.
She closed her eyes and leaned back her head, thinking, dimly, that now,
in such solitude as this, she must find her way to prayer again. But
still the door was closed. It was as if she could not enter without a
human hand in hers. Augustine's hand had never led her in; and she could
not take her husband's now.

But her longing itself became almost a prayer as she sat with closed
eyes. This would pass, this cloud of her husband's lesser love. When he
knew her so unalterably firm, when he saw how inflexibly the old love
shut out the new, he would, once more, be her friend. Then, feeling him
near again, she might find peace. The thought of it was almost peace.
Even in the midst of yesterday's bewildered pain she had caught glimpses
of the old beauty; his kindly speech to Augustine, his making of ease
for her; gratitude welled up in her and she sighed with the relief of
her deep hope. To feel this gratitude was to see still further beyond
the cloud. It was even beautiful for him to be able to "fall in love"
with her--as he had put it: that the manifestations of his love should
have made her shrink was not his fault but hers; she was a nun; because
she had been a sinner. She almost smiled now, in seeing so clearly that
it was on her the shadow rested. She could not be at peace, she could
not pray, she could not live, it seemed to her, if he were really
shadowed. And after the smile it was almost with th