and young ladies have never come to stay
before, brings in a luncheon-tray, and Maud
eats something, mechanically. She hears
the doctor descend, and leave the house;
then, after that, for a long time, there is no
other sound but the heavy tick-tick of the
clock in the hall. It is getting dusk when
a shambling step upon the stair tells her
that Miles is coming down.

"Miss Pomeroy," says he, awkwardly
enough, and colouring, as he enters, "will
you try and make yourself at home here,
for a day or two? My aunt's illness, I
hope, will make no difference. Her last
words, before I left her this morning, were,
'Bring Miss Pomeroy, and she shall remain
with me as long as she likes.' I should
have returned to Mortlands myself this
evening, but for this illness. I am now
going to telegraph to Sir Andrew, and write
to Lady Herriesson, to announce your safety
under this roof."

She did not think of resisting his
proposal that she should remain here. Where,
indeed, could she go? She wanted time
to collect her ideas; and in what Miles
said, there was one thing only which made
much impression. To-morrow the Philistines
would be upon her!

He went into the adjoining study; and
she heard him say to Martha:

"I have plenty of time for the post? I
shall have done my letter in a quarter of
an hour, and whoever goes there, will carry
on this message to the telegraph-office. I
will not ring, as the bell disturbs Mrs.
Hicks, but I will leave both paper and letter
in the hall."

Maud saw him again two or three times
that evening, and his visits to the parlour,
it must be confessed, far from affording
her any comfort, rather irritated her. She
knew she ought to feel grateful to Miles,
and she did not: she felt, on the contrary,
something akin to resentment. He found
her sitting under a lamp, a volume of
Plutarch's Lives, which she had taken
from a shelf, before her. She scarcely
raised her eyes when he entered, and her
tight-shut mouth seemed to unclose
reluctantly to utter such words as were
absolutely necessary. When she did glance
up, and caught the light glistening upon
the prominent feature of the curate's face,
it annoyed her. He was wonderfully good
with her: so patient and forbearing. But
this, I think, only made it worse. She
kept comparing his excellencies with the
shortcomings of a man whom she certainly
could not respect, and who would never be
patient or forbearing. Had poor John's
character been a little less admirable, she
would have liked him, just then, all the
better.

Miles was not to be envied: with his old
aunt lying, in her precarious state, up-stairs,
and the girl he worshipped, below, freezing
him by her manner when he approached
her. But he said to himself that there
were reasons for this; she had been
subjected to insult in his presence that day;
her own conscience must now be accusing
her; lastly, she was in a delicate position
in this house the guest of his aunt, whom
she did not even know. These causes
combined were surely sufficient to account
for her manner, without attributing it to
that most fatal one, which John tried to
dismiss from his mind, as incredible. But
he could not quite get rid of what he had
heard; no one ever can.

The next day the doctor declared that
all immediate anxiety about Mrs. Hicks
was over. She was allowed to see Maud
for a minute, as she wished it. The old
lady held out her hand, and said gently:

"I am glad to see you, my dear."

"You are not to talk, remember," said
John.

"But I want to tell her that——"

"That the longer she stays the better
you will be pleased. I have told her so.
Sir Andrew will, no doubt, be here
presently, and if  ——"

"We will talk over this by-and-bye,"
said Maud, quickly. "I am very grateful
to Mrs. Hicks for her kindness."

She stooped, and kissed the old lady's
hand. Then, when she had left the room,
Mrs. Hicks whispered:

"John, I like her face. I understand it
all now, my dear. God prosper you! I
hope she will stay here until— well, until
she gets a better home."

John's face grew purple; and its distressed
expression struck the old lady. He
said nothing, but sighed, and shook his
head; then presently he followed Maud,
and tried to get to speak to her. Impossible.
She shut herself into her own room, and,
by-and-bye, slipped out, and wandered
about the cathedral and the Close, feeling
restless and ill at ease. The crisis was at
hand: there must be an explanation with
John that night, and a definite resolution,
in some shape or other. What should she
do?

In the mean time, neither telegram nor
messenger arrived from Mortlands. John
was at his wit's end to account for this.