thoroughly patient and self- controlled,
Lady Tallis would have joyfully indulged
her in every whim.

In a few days, however, the illness
passed away, and Maud insisted on rising,
although Lady Tallis declared that she
ought not to leave her bed for at least
another week to come.

The vicar remained in London until
Maud's health was re-established. He
lingered about the house in Gower-street
fitfully, and would seldom consent to enter
Lady Tallis's apartments; but he informed
himself daily of his ward's condition.

At length, after rather more than a
fortnight's sojourn in London, he returned
to Shipley.

"It is a horrible trial to go back," said
he, in his farewell interview with Maud.

"Must you go, Uncle Charles?" she
asked, her eyes brimming with tears,
which she kept from falling by a strong
effort of will.

"Must I? Yes: I cannot give up the
vicarage. I cannot exist without it.  I
cannot afford to pay another man to do my
duty there, and retain enough to live upon.
I might put off the evil day a while longer.
But to what purpose? The sight of the
place—the very name of the place— is
loathsome to me. But what can I do?"

"I wish I could help you!"

"You cannot help me, Maudie. No one
can help me."

Then Maud asked a timid faltering question,
holding his hand and turning away
her head as she spoke. Had he heard any
tidings of—of— the fugitives?

She could not see his face, but his voice
was very stern and deep as he answered
her. They had gone abroad together, he
had learned. Gone to Italy. It mattered
nothing to what place. She was dead to
him henceforward. Maud must mention
her name no more. He had answered her
question; but she must promise never to
speak to him of his lost daughter more.

"I cannot promise it, dear Uncle Charles,"
said Maud, no longer able to restrain her
tears.

"Maud! Do not you separate yourself
from, me, too!"

"No, no! I shall always love you, and
be grateful to you. But I—I cannot make
that promise. Some day you might be
glad yourself that I did not make it."

Mr. Levincourt rose. " Good-by, Maud,"
he said, abruptly. " The time is drawing
near for my departure. I have but a couple
of hours before leaving London."

He went out and closed the door.

She heard his footsteps descending the
stairs slowly and heavily. He paused, came
back, and re-entering the room where
Maud was silently weeping, took her in his
arms and kissed her forehead. She clung
to him, sobbing. " O thank you," she
murmured— " thank you for coming back. You
are not angry with me, dear Uncle Charles?"

"No, no; not angry—never angry with
thee, my sweet childie. God bless thee,
Maud! God for ever bless thee!"

"You will write to me, Uncle Charles,
will you not?"

"I—perhaps—well, well, I will write to
you."

"And I may come and stay with you
again some day? If even it is but for a
time, I may come? You will be so lonely!"
she added, with a passionate burst of tears.

"Heaven knows, my child! It may be
that some day —- Good-by, Maud. God
Almighty bless and guard you for ever!"

Then he went away.

Lady Tallis's intentions in her behaviour
to her niece were all kindness, but it often
happened that she inflicted pain from want
of judgment. But on the evening of the
day on which the above interview took
place, Lady Tallis's garrulity was grateful
to Maud's feelings. So long as her aunt
would talk on indifferent subjects, and let
her listen in silence, or at most with the
occasional contribution of a monosyllable,
the young girl was able to retain a calmness
and quietude that were soothing to
mind and body.

Lady Tallis's conversation rambled on
discursively from topic to topic. She talked
of scenes familiar to her own childhood,
and of persons who died before Maud was
born, as though the latter must naturally
be thoroughly acquainted with what she
knew so well.

All at once she laid down her work, and
exclaimed: " Oh, by-the-by, now! There's
something I particularly wanted to say to
ye, and I have never said it yet!"

Maud was beginning to understand that
her aunt's emphasis was by no means
always proportioned to the importance of
that which she had to say: at least as far
as she (Maud) could judge of the relative
amount of importance that could fairly be
attributed to Lady Tallis's speeches. She
was therefore less startled than she might
have been a fortnight earlier, by her
aunt's impressive announcement.

"What is it that you wanted to say,
Aunt Hilda?"