mortified love and pride, all the miserable
hours that secrecy had cost her. Her soul
was tossed to and fro by many revulsions
of feeling before her meditations were ended.
The untoward teachings of her youth
were bearing bitter fruit. She did not lack
courage. She could endure, and had endured
much, with fortitude and energy. But the
greatness of Renunciation was not hers.
She had balanced her sufferings against
her faults, all her life long. She had been
prone to demand strict justice for herself,
and to think that she meted it out rigidly to
others. There had been a secret sustaining
consolation amid the heart-breaking troubles
of her younger days, in the conviction that
they were undeserved. Pride has always
a balm for the sting of injustice. But for
the stroke of merited calamity, humility
alone brings healing.

Zillah thought that she had paid her
price of suffering. She had faced the pain
of confessing to her son that she had sinned.
And yet the peace which that pain was
meant to purchase, did not descend upon
her heart. She had not learned even yet,
that no human sacrifice can bribe the past
to hide its face and be silent. We must
learn to look upon the irrevocable without
rancour: thus, and thus only, does its stern
sphinx-face reveal to us a sweetness and a
wisdom of its own.

CHAPTER IX. CONFIDENCE

IT was past six o'clock on that same
spring evening when Veronica's note was
delivered at Gower-street. Hugh had just
quitted his mother, after the interview
recorded in the preceding chapter, and was
crossing the little entrance hall when the
messenger arrived.

"Are you Mr. Hugh Lockwood, sir?"
asked the man. "I was told to give the
letter into his own hands."

Hugh assured the messenger that he was
right; and began to read the note as he
stood there, with some anxiety. When
he had glanced quickly through the note,
he turned to the messenger.

"Are you to wait for an answer?" he
said.

"No, sir; I had no instructions about
that."

"Very good. I will send or bring the
reply. Tell Lady Gale that her note has
been safely received."

When the man was gone, Hugh ran up
to his own room to read the letter again,
and to consider its contents. What should
he do? That he must tell Maud of it was
clear to him. He did not think he should
be justified in withholding it from her. But
how should he advise her to act? He
cogitated for some time without coming to
any conclusion; and at last went in search
of her, determined to let himself be greatly
guided by her manner of receiving that
which he had to impart.

He found Maud in the little drawing-
room that had been so long occupied by
Lady Tallis. She was selecting and packing
some music to take away with her; for
she was to accompany her guardian to
Shipley in two days. Mrs. Sheardown had
invited her to stay at Lowater House for a
while. But Maud had declared that she could
not leave Mr. Levincourt for the first week
or so of his return home. Afterwards she
had promised to divide her time as nearly as
might be between Lowater and the vicarage.

"What are you doing there, my own?
You look as pale as a spirit in the twilight,"
said Hugh, entering the room.

"I am doing what spirits have no
occasion—for packing up," she answered.
"Luggage is, however, a condition of
civilised mortality, against which it is vain to
rebel."

"It is a condition of mortality which you
of the gentler sex accept with great fortitude,
I have always heard. Perhaps there
may be something of the martyr-spirit, in
the perseverance with which one sees
women drag about piles of portmanteaus
and bandboxes!"

He answered lightly and cheerfully, as
she had spoken. But his heart sank at the
prospect of so speedily parting with her.

"See, dear Hugh," said Maud, pointing
to a packet of unbound music she had put
aside, "these are to be left in your charge.
The rest—Beethoven's sonatas, Haydn's,
Hummel's, and a few of the songs I shall
take with me. I have packed up the
sonatas of Kozeluch that I used to play with
Mr. Plew—poor Mr. Plew!"

She smiled, but a tear was in her eye,
and her voice shook a little. Presently
she went on. "I have chosen all the old
things that uncle Charles is fond of. He
said the other day that he never had any
music now. Music was always one of his
great pleasures."

"I have not heard you play or sing for
some time, Maud."

"Not since—not since dear Aunt Hilda
died. I have not cared to make music for
my own sake. But I shall be thankful if
I can cheer uncle Charles by it."

Hugh drew near her, and looked down