When the sun set and the land darkened he went home.

At dinner he tried to eat, sickened again, and leaned back in his chair; he forced himself to sit through the meal, talking to Maisie.  When it was over he went to bed and lay awake till the morning.

The next day passed in the same way, and the next night; and always he was aware of Maisie’s sweet face watching him with frightened eyes and an unuttered question.  He was afraid to tell her that Anne was going lest she should put down his illness to its true cause.

And on the third day, when he heard her say she was going to see Anne, he told her.

“Oh, Jerrold, she can’t really mean it.”

“She does mean it.  I said everything I could to stop her, but it wasn’t any good.  She’s taken her passage.”

“But why—­why should she want to go?”

“I can’t tell you why.  You’d better ask her.”

“Has anything happened to upset her?”

“What on earth should happen?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  When did she tell you this?”

He hesitated.  It was dangerous to lie when Maisie might get the truth from Anne.

“The day before yesterday.”

Maisie’s eyes were fixed on him, considering it.  He knew she was saying to herself, “That was the day you came home so sick and queer.”

“Jerry—­did you say anything to upset her?”

“No.”

“I can’t think how she could want to go.”

“Nor I. But she’s going.”

“I shall go down and see if I can’t make her stay.”

“Do.  But you won’t if I can’t,” he said.

iii

Maisie went down early in the afternoon to see Anne.

She couldn’t think how Anne could want to leave the Barrow Farm house when she had just got into it, when they had all made it so nice for her; she couldn’t think how she could leave them when she cared for them, when she knew how they cared for her.

“You do care for us, Anne?”

“Oh yes, I care.”

“And you wanted the farm.  I can’t understand your going just when you’ve got it, when you’ve settled, in and when Jerrold took all that trouble to make it nice for you.  It isn’t like you, Anne.”

“I know.  It must seem awful of me; but I can’t help it, Maisie darling.  I’ve got to go.  You mustn’t try and stop me.  It only makes it harder.”

“Then it is hard?  You don’t really want to go?”

“Of course I don’t.  But I must.”

Maisie meditated, trying to make it out.

“Is it—­is it because you’re unhappy?”

Anne didn’t answer.

“You are unhappy.  You’ve been unhappy ever so long.  Can’t we do anything?”

“No.  Nobody can do anything.”

“It isn’t,” said Maisie at last, “anything to do with Jerrold?”

“You wouldn’t ask me that, Maisie, if you didn’t know it was.”