mind was full of that which she had to
reveal to him respecting Veronica. And she
had dreaded the task, being entirely
uncertain how he would receive it. But when
she began to perceive the change in him,
she conceived the hope that her tidings
might at least have the good effect of rousing
him from the apathy into which he seemed
to have allowed all the higher part of his
nature to fall, while he fed the daily life of
his mind with contemptible trivialities.
She had approached the subject one evening,
when she and her guardian were alone
together in the old chintz-furnished sitting-
room after tea. Maud had quietly opened
the pianoforte, and had played through
softly a quaint andante from one of Haydn's
sonatas.

The piece was chosen with the cunning
instinct of affection. It was soothing and
gracious, and yet, in its old-fashioned
stateliness, it did not too deeply probe the
spring of grief. The somewhat wiry tones
of the well-worn instrument rendered
crisply every twirl and turn of the brave
old music, under Maud's light fingers. In
the very twang of the yellow keys there
was a staid pathos. It affected the ear as
the sweet worn voice of an old woman
affects it, that thin quavering pipe, to which
some heart has thrilled, some pulse beat
responsive, in the days of long ago. Maud
played on, and the spring twilight deepened,
and the vicar listened, silent, in his
armchair by the empty fireplace. He had
taken to smoking within the past year.
He had bought a great meerschaum with a
carved fantastic bowl, and the colour of the
pipe bore testimony to the persistency of
its owner in the use of the weed. As Maud
played softly in the gathering dusk, the
puffs of smoke from the vicar's chair grew
rarer and rarer, and at last they ceased.
Maud rose from the piano, and went to sit
beside her guardian. He was still silent.
The influence of the music was upon him.

"Uncle Charles," said Maud, in a low
voice, "I have something to tell you, and
something to ask you. I will do the
asking first. Will you forgive me for having
delayed what I have to say until now?"

"I do not think it likely that you have
need of my forgiveness, Maud. What
forgiveness is between us must be chiefly
from you to me, not from me to you."

"Don't say that, dear Uncle Charles.
You touch my conscience too nearly. And
yet, at the time, I thought—and Hugh
thought—that it was better to keep the
secret for a while. I hope you will think
so too, and forgive me. Uncle Charles,
some one is dead whom you knew."

The vicar gave a violent start. Maud,
with her hand on the elbow of his chair,
felt it shake; and she added, quickly, "It
is no one whose death you can regret. It
is awful to think that the extinction of a
human life should be cause for rejoicing,
rather than sorrow, in the hearts of all who
knew him. But it is so. Sir John Gale
is dead." The vicar drew a long, deep
breath. His head drooped down on his
breast; but Maud felt, rather than saw—
for it was by this time almost dark within
the house—that he was listening intently.
In a trembling voice, but clearly, and with
steadiness of purpose, Maud told her
guardian of Veronica's marriage, of her
inheritance, and of her actual presence in
London. She merely suppressed in her
narrative two facts. First, the will, which
had made her (Maud) heiress to Sir John
Gale's wealth; and, secondly, the late
baronet's intention of defrauding Veronica
at the last. She and Hugh had agreed
that it would be well to spare Mr. Levincourt
the useless pain of these revelations.
The vicar listened in unbroken silence
whilst Maud continued to speak.

When she ceased, after a little pause, he
said, "And she was in London! My
daughter was within a few streets of me,
and made no sign! She made not any—
the least—attempt to see me or to ask my
pardon."

His tone was deep and angry. He
breathed quickly and noisily, like a man
fighting against emotion. Still Maud felt
that in his very reproach there was a
hopeful symptom of some softening in the
hardness of his resentment.
"She should have done so, dear Uncle
Charles. I told her so, and she did not
deny it. But I—I—believe she was afraid."

"Afraid! Veronica Levincourt afraid!
She was not afraid of disgracing my home,
and embittering my life. But she was
afraid to come and abase her wicked pride
at my feet, when she might have done so
with some chance of bringing me—not
comfort; no, nothing can cancel her evil
past—but at least some little alleviation of
the weight of disgrace that has been
bowing me to the earth ever since her flight."

Maud could not but feel, with a sensation
of shame at the feeling, that the vicar's
words did not touch her heart. There was
nothing in them that was not true. But
in some way they rang hollow. How
different it had been when the vicar had first