ery day it brought them nearer to the breaking point. It was against
all nature and all nature was against it. They had always before them
that vision of the point at which they would give in. Always there was
one thought that drew them to the edge of surrender: "I can bear it for
myself, but I can't bear it for him," "I can bear it for myself, but I
can't bear it for her."

And to both of them had come another fear, greater than their dread of
Maisie's pain, the fear of each other's illness. Their splendid physical
health was beginning to break down. They worked harder than ever on the
land; but hard work exhausted them at the end of the day. They went on
from a sense of duty, dull and implacable, but they had no more pleasure
in it. Anne became every night more restless, every day more tired and
anaemic. Jerrold ate less and slept less. They grew thin, and their
faces took on the same look of fatigue and anxiety and wonder, as if,
more than anything, they were amazed at a world whose being connived at
and tolerated their pain.

Maisie saw it and felt the first vague disturbance of her peace. Her
illness had worried everybody while it lasted, but she couldn't think
why, when she was well again, Anne and Jerrold should go on looking like
that. Maisie thought it was physical; the poor dears worked too hard.

The change had been so gradual that she saw it without consternation,
but when Eliot came down in November he couldn't hide his distress. To
Eliot the significant thing was not Anne's illness or Jerrold's illness
but the likeness in their illnesses, the likeness in their faces. It was
clear that they suffered together, with the same suffering, from the
same cause. And when on his last evening Jerrold took him into the
library to consult him about Maisie's case, Eliot had a hard, straight
talk with him about his own.

"My dear Jerrold," he said, "there's nothing seriously wrong with
Maisie. I've examined her heart. It isn't a particularly strong heart,
but there's no disease in it. If you took her to all the specialists in
Europe they'd tell you the same thing."

"I know, but I keep on worrying."

"That, my dear chap, is because you're ill yourself. I don't like it.
I'm not bothered about Maisie, but I am bothered about you and Anne."

"Anne? Do you think _Anne's_ ill?"

"I think she will be, and so will you if... What have you been doing?"

"We've been doing nothing."

"That's it. You've got to do somethin