ed of her. She did remember,
indeed, that it was only the depth of her love for him which had caused
her disgrace; but, even if he came to understand that, it would not,
she feared, weigh in her favour against his judgment.

It was the natural result of the influences to which she had been
subjected. Her mind, overwrought by resolute contemplation of ideas
beyond its scope, her gentle nature bent beneath a burden of duty to
which it was unequal, and taught to consider with painful solemnity
those impulses of kindness which would otherwise have been merely the
simple joys of life, she had come to distrust every instinct which did
not subserve the supreme purpose. Even of Sidney's conduct she could
not reason in a natural way. Instinct would have bidden her reproach
him, though ever so gently; was it well done to draw away when he must
have known how she looked for his aid? Her artificial self urged, on
the other hand, that he had not acted thus without some gravely
considered motive. What it was she could not pretend to divine; her
faith in his nobleness overcame every perplexity. Of the persons
constituting this little group and playing their several parts, she
alone had fallen altogether below what was expected of her. As humble
now as in the days of her serfdom, Jane was incapable of revolting
against the tyranny of circumstances. Life had grown very hard for her
again, but she believed that this was to a great extent her own fault,
the outcome of her own unworthy weakness.

At Michael's return she did her best to betray no idle despondency.
Their midday meal was almost as silent as breakfast had been; his eyes
avoided her, and frequently he lost himself in thought. As he was
rising from the table Jane observed an unsteadiness in his movement; he
shook his head mechanically and leaned forward on both his hands, as if
feeling giddy. She approached him, but did not venture to speak.

'I'll go upstairs,' he said, having sighed slightly.

'May I come and read to you, grandfather?'

'Not just now, Jane. Go out whilst it's a bit fine.'

He went from the room, still with an unsteady walk. Reaching his own
room, where there was a cheerful fire, he sat down, and remained for a
long time unoccupied, save with his reflections. This chamber had
scarcely changed in a detail of its arrangement since he first came to
inhabit it. There was the chair which Sidney always used, and that on
which Jane had sat since she was the sile