crying for?" came the question again, in just
the same tone. And still there was silence, with only the sniff
of her tears.

His eyes glittered, and as if with malignant desire. She
shrank and became blind. She was like a bird being beaten down.
A sort of swoon of helplessness came over her. She was of
another order than he, she had no defence against him. Against
such an influence, she was only vulnerable, she was given
up.

He rose and went out of the house, possessed by the evil
spirit. It tortured him and wracked him, and fought in him. And
whilst he worked, in the deepening twilight, it left him.
Suddenly he saw that she was hurt. He had only seen her
triumphant before. Suddenly his heart was torn with compassion
for her. He became alive again, in an anguish of compassion. He
could not bear to think of her tears--he could not bear it.
He wanted to go to her and pour out his heart's blood to her. He
wanted to give everything to her, all his blood, his life, to
the last dregs, pour everything away to her. He yearned with
passionate desire to offer himself to her, utterly.

The evening star came, and the night. She had not lighted the
lamp. His heart burned with pain and with grief. He trembled to
go to her.

And at last he went, hesitating, burdened with a great
offering. The hardness had gone out of him, his body was
sensitive, slightly trembling. His hand was curiously sensitive,
shrinking, as he shut the door. He fixed the latch almost
tenderly.

In the kitchen was only the fireglow, he could not see her.
He quivered with dread lest she had gone--he knew not
where. In shrinking dread, he went through to the parlour, to
the foot of the stairs.

"Anna," he called.

There was no answer. He went up the stairs, in dread of the
empty house--the horrible emptiness that made his heart
ring with insanity. He opened the bedroom door, and his heart
flashed with certainty that she had gone, that he was alone.

But he saw her on the bed, lying very still and scarcely
noticeable, with her back to him. He went and put his hand on
her shoulder, very gently, hesitating, in a great fear and
self-offering. She did not move.

He waited. The hand that touched her shoulder hurt him, as if
she were sending it away. He stood dim with pain.

"Anna," he said.

But still she was motionless, like a curled up, oblivious
creature. His heart beat with strange throes of pain. Then, by a
motion under his hand, he knew she was