you every day, knew how every hour of
your day was spent, almost."

"What should there be to know of any
years of such a life as mine?"

"That is it. What should there be to
know of any years of such a quiet, lonely,
innocent life. This is how I fill in those
years; just tell me if I do so rightly."

Involuntarily Daisy stayed the movement
of her busy hand; she held her breath,
and felt as if she would like to stay the
beating of her heart.

"After the accident through which you
lost Wattie—some day, Daisy, you must tell
me more exactly how that was—your old
home grew too painfully distasteful to you;
you went to stay with your good nurse,
who had then lately married; from there
you answered the call of your cousin. But
you must have paid ' nurse ' (I don't know
that you have told me her present name,
or where she lives) a long visit, Daisy?"

"She did not get tired of me."

"I suppose I may conclude that this was
all."

"You haven't reckoned my surprise when
my cousin brought me to Redcombe, your
uncle's property. Your uncle's death and
your coming home, his heir, are nothing in
your history."

"Yes, they are a great deal in my history,
but you don't hold them much in yours.
Possibly you would have shunned
Redcombe had you known that, coming here,
you might soon have so 'troublesome' a
neighbour."

"Possibly I should, Kenneth."

"So that was all!—And yet, Daisy," he
went on, after a pause, " it seems to me that
is not, cannot be, all—that there has been
something more. Something that has given
you a look of careworn weariness, which
you, who are so young, ought not to have:
something that makes you speak the truth
when you say—what you are always saying
—that you are ' so tired. '"

There was a gloomy fold on his forehead
now. He averted his eyes from her face
and fixed them on the fire, as he began
again:

"Daisy, there is one thing I have often
wondered about, one thing I have often
been on the point of asking you about,
but was afraid afraid my words might
pain you, afraid they might touch some
wound—"

"They would, they would, beyond what
I could bear, they would pain me!" cried
Daisy. " Wonder about nothing—ask me
about nothing. Leave me alone, only leave
me alone, dear Kenneth, leave me alone.
You know I am a coward, and can't bear
pain. Have pity!"

"Just one question: if you are not brave
I think you will bear a little pain to save
me much—unless you are wholly altered
from the Daisy I knew and loved. Just
one question. What has become of—"

"He is dead," gasped Daisy; "he died
horribly, by his own hand."

"Good Heavens!" He turned and looked
at her now; her face could not have been
whiter, and her eyes were strained and
dilated, as if that horror (which, as he supposed,
she could only have seen in imagination)
were re-enacting before them.

"My poor, poor child! Why did you
never tell me? If you had told me, then I
should have understood everything."

"Why did I never tell you!" she echoed
almost fiercely. "Was it a thing I was
likely to speak of? Was it a thing I should
recal if I could help? I had almost left
off being haunted by the memory of it, and
now, Kenneth, you cruel Kenneth, you
have brought it all back."

"Forgive me, Daisy, and tell me, that I
may never need to come near the subject
again, just one or two things more. Did
he—did you—"

But while he bungled, not knowing how
most innocently to frame his question,
Daisy sprang up, quivering.

"I cannot bear it! I cannot! How
dare you torture me so? It is no use, I
tell you I cannot bear it!" As she spoke,
she moved towards the door.

"No, no, don't go away," he said, soothingly,
following her, bringing her back to
her chair. " If it is true you cannot bear
it, I will never touch the matter again.
But, Daisy, if you would only have a few
minutes' courage and patience, it would be
so much the happier way. If you would
just tell the story out, and then come to
me to weep your tears—"

"I will tell you nothing. And what is
more, you must promise not to question me
again, ever. If you don't give me this
promise, Kenneth, I shan't be able to bear
to see you or to hear you speak."

"This is all terribly morbid, mere madness."
He noted the wild trouble of her
affrighted eyes, and hastened to add, " But
you have my promise, Daisy. I need not
say that I shall keep it. But some day
you will release me from it. Some day
when our hearts are so close that there is
room for nothing between them."

"You speak," she said, "as if—as if—