living in London." And she, too, stooped and felt the
mare's shin.

To Mrs. Pendyce in these days the hours passed with incredible slowness.
For thirty odd years she had waited at once for everything and nothing;
she had, so to say, everything she could wish for, and--nothing, so that
even waiting had been robbed of poignancy; but to wait like this, in
direct suspense, for something definite was terrible. There was hardly a
moment when she did not conjure up George, lonely and torn by conflicting
emotions; for to her, long paralysed by Worsted Skeynes, and ignorant of
the facts, the proportions of the struggle in her son's soul appeared
Titanic; her mother instinct was not deceived as to the strength of his
passion. Strange and conflicting were the sensations with which she
awaited the result; at one moment thinking, 'It is madness; he must
promise--it is too awful!' at another, 'Ah! but how can he, if he loves
her so? It is impossible; and she, too--ah! how awful it is!'

Perhaps, as Mr. Pendyce had said, she was romantic; perhaps it was only
the thought of the pain her boy must suffer. The tooth was too big, it
seemed to her; and, as in old days, when she took him to Cornmarket to
have an aching tooth out, she ever sat with his hand in hers while the
little dentist pulled, and ever suffered the tug, too, in her own mouth,
so now she longed to share this other tug, so terrible, so fierce.

Against Mrs. Bellew she felt only a sort of vague and jealous aching; and
this seemed strange even to herself--but, again, perhaps she was
romantic.

Now it was that she found the value of routine. Her days were so well
and fully occupied that anxiety was forced below the surface. The nights
were far more terrible; for then, not only had she to bear her own
suspense, but, as was natural in a wife, the fears of Horace Pendyce as
well. The poor Squire found this the only time when he could get relief
from worry; he came to bed much earlier on purpose. By dint of
reiterating dreads and speculation he at length obtained some rest. Why
had not George answered? What was the fellow about? And so on and so on,
till, by sheer monotony, he caused in himself the need for slumber. But
his wife's torments lasted till after the birds, starting with a sleepy
cheeping, were at full morning chorus. Then only, turning softly for fear
she should awaken him, the poor lady fell asleep.

For George had not answered.

In her morning visits