him what he has on his mind, and if he will
but tell me, all will be well."

So mused Elsie Denbigh, while her husband
within the room tossed and muttered in his
feverish sleep; and without the room, the
reddening sky was reflected in the black waters
of the Abbot's Pool.

CHAPTER IV.

Dear my Lord,

Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.

SHAKESPEARE.

MR. DENBIGH'S illness proved not to be
serious. A few days of entire rest conquered
it. Elsie had by no means forgotten the resolution
which had grown out of her talk with Isott,
but it was not easy to find an opportunity of
carrying it into effect. Again and again she
began little remarks intended to lead up to the
great question: "Have you anything on your
mind?" And again and again she had not
courage to come to the point.

One evening, as they sat together, he suddenly
asked her if she had ever read Southey's
All for Love, and insisted on reading it through
to her. When he had finished he asked her what
she thought of it?

"It is very beautiful," she said; "only I
don't feel as if it were natural."

"What ! You think the devil no longer
goeth about, seeking whom he may devour?"

"I did not mean that. I meant that I do not
think Cyra's married life could have been so
happy and peaceful with that dreadful man for
her husband."

"Indeed? Not when

     He loved her as sincerely,
     Most wretched and unhappy man,
     As he had bought her dearly.

Did not that deserve some little return,
however bad he might be?"

"I did not say she could not love him.
But the more she cared for him, the more she
would feel the gulf between them, I think.
Oh! it is a wretched heart-breaking story; how
glad I am it never really happened."

"Yes; that is a comfort certainly," he said;
and there was a pause, which she broke by
saying,

"If there had been nothing else to make the
heroine of this poem unhappy, she must have
seen that there was an atmosphere about her
husband which she could not understand; a
something hidden from her. Can anything be
more wretched than that?"

She stopped, and, finding herself on the brink
of her great subject, blushed so guiltily that
her husband asked, in his sudden suspicious
way:

"What are you thinking about?"

She left her place, and came to kneel beside
him. She put her arms round his neck, and
laid her head on his breast, bending down so
that he could not see her face. "I am thinking,"
she said, with a fast-beating heart, "that
I should be so grieved if you ever kept anything
from me, anything that was perplexing you, or
troubling you! Whatever it was, I would so
much rather know it, and help you to bear it."

She ended her little speech, rather surprised
that he had not interrupted her; he did not even
answer or move until she looked up, afraid that
she had vexed him. But there was no anger in
his face; there was only a grave and troubled
look; and all he said was: "What fancies have
you got in your head, Elsie?"

"I have thought sometimes, when I have
seen you look oppressed and out of spirits, that
something—I have no idea what, Philip—was
worrying you, and making you anxious; perhaps
something that you don't like to tell me; and I
have so often longed to beg you to trust me,
and let me know if there is anything. I could
bear it, Philip, indeed, indeed I could bear
anything, if I only felt that you did really trust
me."

He took her in his arms, and held her clasped
in them, smoothing down her long fair hair.

"Poor child! poor child!" he said, and then
there was a deep heavy sigh, as if it came
from a whole world of oppression.

"Philip," she pleaded, returning to the
charge, "if you have anything that worries
you, do tell me. Whatever it is, I shall not
mind."

"Not mind? That's a rash promise, Elsie.
What if I were to tell you that I have sold
myself to the demon, like Eleëmon, for your
sake?"

Rather hurt at being put off with jests like a
silly girl, Mrs. Denbigh collected all her
dignity and said: "You must not laugh at
me, Philip. It was your old nurse who first
began to be in a fidget about you. She
infected me, I think. She has a fancy that you
heard some bad news, or were vexed somehow,
the night before we were married. Philip,
where are you going? What is it?"

"The surgery bell," he answered, already at
the door.

He was absent for some moments.
Presently he came back.

"No ring. A mistake," he said. "Go on,
Elsie. I am curious. I was not aware that
Isott took so much interest in my proceedings.
What did I hear or do on our wedding day?"

"The night before; but really it is nothing
—only I had better tell you, that you may stop
old Isott from gossiping;" and she told him all
that the old woman had said, and her fancy
that he might be suppressing some anxiety or
trouble out of consideration for his wife.

"And you know, Philip, I never could bear
that," she concluded; "anything but that, I
should not care for."

"What would you say to me, Elsie, if I had
loved you better than God and Heaven and my
own soul?"

She looked up, half frightened. He watched
her wistful face for a moment, then broke into
a laugh.

"What a pity so much excitement should
be thrown away! Did it never occur to you,