strength.  There seemed to be no organic trouble.  The local physician had been consulted, and said that nothing whatever was the matter, yet had gone away with a grave face after prescribing a simple tonic.  The fact was that life was flickering low, as it sometimes does, with no ostensible reason which science could grasp.  Evelyn was beyond science.  She was assailed in that citadel of spirit which overlooks science from the heights of eternity.  No physician but fate itself could help her.

All this time, while Maria was suffering as keenly as her sister, her suffering left no evidence.  She had inherited from her mother a tremendous strength of will, which sustained her.  She said to herself that she had her work to do, that her health must not fail.  She said that probably Wollaston did not care for her, although she could not help thinking that she had the power to make him care, and that she would be lacking in all that meant her true and best self should she give way to her unhappiness and let it master her.  She therefore mastered it.  In those days to Maria, who had a ready imagination, her unhappiness seemed sometimes to assume a material shape like the fabulous dragon.  She seemed to be fighting something with tooth and claw, a monstrous verity; but she fought, and she kept the upper hand.  Maria did not lose flesh.  She ate as usual, she retained her interest in her work, and all the time whenever a moment of solitude came she renewed the conflict.  She thought as little as possible of Wollaston; she avoided even looking at him.  He thought that he really was an object of aversion to her.  He began to question the advisability of his retaining his position another year.  He told himself that it was hardly fair to Maria to subject her to such annoyance, that it was much easier for him to obtain another position than it was for her.  He wanted to ask her with regard to it, but in the days before commencement she so manifestly shrank from even looking at him that he hardly liked to approach her even with a question which concerned her own happiness.

Wollaston in those days used sometimes to glance at Evelyn, and notice how very thin and delicate she looked, and an anxiety which was almost paternal was over him.  He used almost to wish that she was not so proficient in her studies.  One day, meeting her in the vestibule when no one was in sight, he could not resist the impulse which led him to pat her little, dark, curly head and say, in a voice broken with tenderness: 

“Don’t study too hard, little one.”

Evelyn gave an upward glance at him and ran away.  Wollaston stood still a moment, dazed.  He was not naturally a conceited man.  Then, too, he had always regarded himself as so outside the pale that he doubted the evidence of his own senses.  If he had not been tied to Evelyn’s sister he would have said to himself, in a rapture, that that look of the young girl’s meant, could mean, only one thing:  that all her innocent heart was centred