in the night, I thought."

There was something horrible in his voice and face as he uttered these
words; he shuddered slightly, and his tongue seemed to labour for
utterance, as though he dreaded the sound of his own speech.

Maud sat unmoving and silent.

"I thought, also," Paul went on, "that she appeared a little strange
last evening, when the people were here.--You weren't in the
drawing-room?"

Maud shook her head again.

"Do you--do you think," he asked, "she is having too much excitement? I
know she needs a life of constant variety; it is essential to her. I'm
sure you understand that, Maud? You--you don't misjudge her?"

"No, no; it is necessary to her," said the girl mechanically.

"But," her father pursued, with still lower voice, "there is always the
danger lest she should over-exert herself. Last night I--I thought I
noticed--but it was scarcely worth speaking of; I am so easily alarmed,
you know."

Maud tried to say something, but in vain.

"You--you won't desert her--quite--Maud?" said her father in a tone of
pleading. "I am obliged to be so muck away--God knows I can't help it.
And then I--I wonder whether you have noticed? I seem to have little
influence with her."

He stopped, but the next moment forced himself to utter what was in his
mind.

"Can't you help me a little more, Maud? Couldn't you induce her to live
a little more--more restfully at times?"

She rose, pushing the chair back behind her.

"Father, I can't!" she cried; then burst into a passion of tears.

"God help us!" her father breathed, rising and looking at her in blank
misery. But in a moment she had recovered herself. They faced each
other for an instant, but neither ventured to speak again, and Maud
turned and left him.

Waymark came as usual, but now he seldom saw Mrs. Enderby. Maud
received him alone. There was little that was lover-like in these hours
spent together. They kissed each other at meeting and parting, but,
with this exception, the manner of both was very slightly different
from what it had been before their engagement. They sat apart, and
talked of art, literature, religion, seldom of each other. It had come
to this by degrees; at first there had been more warmth, but passion
never. Waymark's self-consciousness often weighed upon his tongue, and
made his conversation but a string of commonplaces; Maud was often
silent for long intervals. Their eyes never met in a steady gaze.

Waymark often asked hi