It was not, I said, that anything had come between her and me; but I seemed to be remote, withdrawn, laid apart like some stiffening corpse in the tomb.  She tried to reassure me, to show me that it was mainly physical, the overstrain of long and actively enjoyed work, and that all I needed was rest.  She did not say one word of reproach, or anything to imply that I was unmanly and cowardly—­ indeed, she contrived, I know not how, to lead me to think that my state was in ordinary life hardly apparent.  Once she asked pathetically if there was no way in which she could help.  I had not the heart to say what was in my mind, that it would be better and easier for me if she ignored my unhappiness altogether; and that sympathy and compassion only plunged me deeper into gloom, as showing me that it was evident that there was something amiss—­but I said “No, there is nothing; and no one can help me, unless God kindles the light He has quenched.  Be your own dear self as much as possible; think and speak as little of me as you can,”—­and then I added:  “Dearest, my love for you is here, as strong and pure as ever—­don’t doubt that—­only I cannot find it or come near it—­it is hidden from me somewhere—­I am like a man wandering in dark fields, who sees the firelit window of his home; he cannot feel the warmth, but he knows that it is there waiting for him.  He cannot return till he has found that of which he is in search.”

“Could he not give up the search?” said Maud, smiling tearfully.  “Ah, not yet,” I said.  “You do not know, Maud, what my work has been to me—­no man can ever explain that to any woman, I think:  for women live in life, but man lives in work.  Man does, woman is.  There is the difference.”

We drew near the village.  The red sun was sinking over the plain, a ball of fire; the mist was creeping up from the low-lying fields; the moon hung, like a white nail-paring, high in the blue sky.  We went to the little inn, where we had been before.  We ordered tea—­ we were to return by train—­and Maud being tired, I left her, while I took a turn in the village, and explored the remains of an old manor-house, which I had seen often from the road.  I was intolerably restless.  I found a lane which led to the fields behind the manor.  It was a beautiful scene.  To the left of me ran the great plain brimmed with mist; the manor, with its high gables and chimney-stacks, stood up over an orchard, surrounded by a high, ancient brick wall, with a gate between tall gate-posts surmounted by stone balls.  The old pasture lay round the house, and there were many ancient elms and sycamores forming a small park, in the boughs of which the rooks, who were now streaming home from the fields, were clamorous.  I found myself near a chain of old fish-ponds, with thorn-thickets all about them; and here the old house stood up against a pure evening sky, rusty red below, melting into a pure green above.  My heart went out in wonder