uld out of them.

Suddenly he saw that there was some one on the stone seat by the
spring, and in a moment he saw that it was Maud--and that she had
observed him. She looked troubled and melancholy. Had she stolen away
here, had she even appointed a place of meeting with the wretched boy?
was she vexed at his intrusion? Well, it would have to be faced now. He
would go on, he would say a few words, he would at least not betray
himself. After all, she had done no wrong, poor child--she had only
found her mate; and she at least should not be troubled.

She rose up at his approach; and Howard, affecting a feeble heartiness,
said, "Well, so you have stolen away like me! This is a sweet place,
isn't it; like an old fairy-tale, and haunted by a Neckan? I won't
disturb you--I am going on to the hill--I want a breath of air."

Maud looked at him rather pitifully, and said nothing for a moment.
Then she said, "Won't you stay a little and talk to me?--I don't seem
to have seen you--there has been so much going on. I want to tell you
about my book, you know--I am going on with that--I shall soon have
some more chapters to show you."

She sate down at one end of the bench, and Howard seated himself
wearily at the other. Maud glanced at him for a moment, but he said
nothing. The sight of her was a sort of torture to him. He longed with
an insupportable longing to fling himself down beside her and claim
her, despairingly and helplessly. He simply could not frame a sentence.

"You look tired," said Maud. "I don't know what it is, but it seems as
if everything had gone wrong since we came to Cambridge. Do tell me
what it all is--you can trust me. I have been afraid I have vexed you
somehow, and I had hoped we were going to be friends." She leaned her
head on her hand, and looked at him. She looked so troubled and so
frail, that Howard's heart smote him--he must make an effort; he must
not cloud the child's mind; he must just take what she could give him,
and not hamper her in any way. The one thing left him was a miserable
courtesy, on which he must somehow depend. He forced a sort of smile,
and began to talk--his own voice audible to him, strained and ugly,
like the voice of some querulous ghost.

"Ah," he said, "as one gets older, one can't always command one's
moods. Vexed? Of course, I am not vexed--what put that into your head?
It's this--I can tell you so much! It seems to me that I have been
drawn aside out of my old, easy,