If it came to asking for help, of whom could she ask it but of Waymark?  Yet for some time she felt she could not bring herself to that.  In the consciousness of her own attitude towards him, it seemed to her that Waymark might well doubt the genuineness of her need, might think it a mere feint to draw him into nearer relations.  She could not doubt that he knew her love for him; she did not desire to hide it, even had she been able.  But him she could not understand.  A struggle often seemed going on within him in her presence; he appeared to repress his impulses; he was afraid of her.  At times passion urged her to break through this barrier between them, to bring about a situation which would end in clear mutual understanding, cost her what it might.  At other times she was driven to despair by the thought that she had made herself too cheap in his eyes.  Could she put off the last vestige of her independence, and, in so many words, ask him to give her money?

This evening she expected Waymark, but the usual time of his coming went by.  She sat in the twilight, listening with painful intentness to every step on the stairs; again and again her heart leaped at some footfall far below, only to be deceived.  She had not even now made up her mind how to speak to him, or whether to speak to him at all; but she longed passionately to see him.  The alternations of hope and disappointment made her feverish.  Illusions began to possess her.  Once she heard distinctly the familiar knock.  It seemed to rouse her from slumber:  she sprang to the door and opened it, but no one was there.  She ran half way down the stairs, but saw no one.  It was now nearly midnight.  The movement had dispelled for a little the lethargy which was growing upon her, and she suddenly came to a resolution.  Taking a sheet of note-paper, she wrote this:—­

“I have been without work for a fortnight.  All my money is done, and I am in want.  Can you send me some, for present help, till I get more work? Do not bring it yourself, and do not speak a word of this when you see me, I beg you earnestly.  If I shall fail to get work, I will speak to you of my own accord.

I. S.”

She went out and posted this, though she had no stamp to put on the envelope; then, returning, she threw herself as she was on to the bed, and before long passed into unconsciousness.

Waymark’s absence that evening had been voluntary.  His work had come to a standstill; his waking hours were passed in a restless misery which threatened to make him ill.  And to-night he had not dared to go to Ida; in his present state the visit could have but one result, and even yet he hoped that such a result might not come about.  He left home and wandered about the streets till early morning.  All manner of projects occupied him.  He all but made up his mind to write a long letter to Ida and explain his position without reserve.  But he feared lest the result of that might be to make Ida hide