et
resonnant. Toute l'aube tressaillit. J'avais reve de vous. Est-ce
que vous voyez aussi l'aube? Les oiseaux m'eveillent presque tous les
matins, et toujours il y a quelque chose de terreur dans le cri des
grives. Il est si clair_--'"

Miriam sat tremulous, half ashamed. He remained quite still, trying to
understand. He only knew she loved him. He was afraid of her love for
him. It was too good for him, and he was inadequate. His own love was
at fault, not hers. Ashamed, he corrected her work, humbly writing above
her words.

"Look," he said quietly, "the past participle conjugated with _avoir_
agrees with the direct object when it precedes."

She bent forward, trying to see and to understand. Her free, fine curls
tickled his face. He started as if they had been red hot, shuddering. He
saw her peering forward at the page, her red lips parted piteously, the
black hair springing in fine strands across her tawny, ruddy cheek. She
was coloured like a pomegranate for richness. His breath came short as
he watched her. Suddenly she looked up at him. Her dark eyes were naked
with their love, afraid, and yearning. His eyes, too, were dark, and
they hurt her. They seemed to master her. She lost all her self-control,
was exposed in fear. And he knew, before he could kiss her, he must
drive something out of himself. And a touch of hate for her crept back
again into his heart. He returned to her exercise.

Suddenly he flung down the pencil, and was at the oven in a leap,
turning the bread. For Miriam he was too quick. She started violently,
and it hurt her with real pain. Even the way he crouched before the oven
hurt her. There seemed to be something cruel in it, something cruel in
the swift way he pitched the bread out of the tins, caught it up again.
If only he had been gentle in his movements she would have felt so rich
and warm. As it was, she was hurt.

He returned and finished the exercise.

"You've done well this week," he said.

She saw he was flattered by her diary. It did not repay her entirely.

"You really do blossom out sometimes," he said. "You ought to write
poetry."

She lifted her head with joy, then she shook it mistrustfully.

"I don't trust myself," she said.

"You should try!"

Again she shook her head.

"Shall we read, or is it too late?" he asked.

"It is late--but we can read just a little," she pleaded.

She was really getting now the food for her life during the next week.
He made her