duties, things that disturbed his tranquillity; but this anxiety did not come to him in that light at all; he longed that it should be over, but it was not a thing which he desired to banish from his mind; it was all bound up with love and happy anticipation; and next he learned the joy of doing things that would otherwise be troublesome for the sake of love, and found them all transmuted, not into seemly courtesies, but into sharp and urgent pleasures.  To be of use to Maud, to entertain her, to disguise his anxieties, to compel himself to talk easily and lightly—­all this filled his soul with delight, especially when he found as the months went on that Maud began to look to him as a matter of course; and though Howard had been used to say that being read aloud to was the only occupation in the world that was worse than reading aloud, he found that there was no greater pleasure than in reading to Maud day by day, in finding books that she cared for.

“If only I could spare you some of this,” he said to her one day, “that’s the awful thing, not to be able to share the pain of anyone whom one loves.  I feel I could hold my hand in the fire with a smile, if only I knew that it was saving you something!”

“Ah, dearest, I know,” said Maud, “but you mustn’t think of it like that; it interests me in a curious way—­I can’t explain—­I don’t feel helpless; I feel as if I were doing something worth the trouble!”

At last the time drew near; it was hot, silent, airless weather; the sun lay fiercely in the little valley, day by day; one morning they were sitting together and Maud suddenly said to him, “Dearest, one thing I want to say; if I seem to be afraid, I am not afraid:  will you remember that?  I want to walk every step of the way; I mean to do it, I wish to do it; I am not afraid in my heart of hearts of anything—­pain, or even worse; and you must remember that, even if I do not seem to remember!”

“Yes,” said Howard, “I will remember that; and indeed I know it; you even take away my own fears when you speak so; love takes hands beneath it all.”

But on the following morning—­Maud had a restless and suffering night—­Mrs. Graves came in upon Howard as he tried to read, to tell him that there was great anxiety, Maud had had a sudden attack of pain; it had passed off, but they were not reassured.  “The doctor will be here presently,” she said.  Howard rose dry-lipped and haggard.  “She sends you her dearest love,” she said, “but she would rather be alone; she doesn’t wish you to see her thus; she is absolutely brave, and that is the best thing; and I am not afraid myself,” she added:  “we must just wait—­everything is in her favour; but I know how you feel and how you must feel; just clasp the anxiety close, look in its face; it’s a blessed thing, though you can’t see it as I do—­blessed, I mean, that one can feel so.”