becoming mechanical. It was like tramping a treadmill:
she got no further, only became more and more exhausted. That spring
and summer people noticed her white face and strange eyes. "Oh, she's a
queer girl," they said.

The summer was very hot with a little wind that blew the sand
everywhere. Strange how that sand succeeded in penetrating into the
very depth of the town. The sand lay upon the pavement of the High
Street so that your feet gritted as you walked. The woods and houses
lay for nearly two months beneath a blazing sun. There was scarcely any
rain. The little garden behind the Rectory was parched and brown; the
laurel bushes were grey with dust. They saw very few people that
summer; many of their friends had escaped.

Maggie, thinking of the green depths of Harben a year ago, longed for
its coolness; nevertheless she was happy to think that she would never
have to see Harben again.

As she had foretold, laziness settled upon Paul. What he loved best was
to sink into his old armchair in the dusty study and read old volumes
of Temple Bar and the Cornhill. He had them piled at his side; he read
article after article about such subjects as "The Silkworm Industry"
and "Street Signs of the Eighteenth Century." He was very proud of his
sermons, but now he seldom gave a new one. He always intended to.
"Don't let any one disturb me to-night, Maggie," he would say at supper
on Fridays. "I've got my sermon." But on entering the study he
remembered that there was an article in Temple Bar that he must finish.
He also read the Church Times right through, including the
advertisements. Grace gradually resumed her old functions.

She maintained, however, an elaborate pretence of leaving everything to
Maggie. Especially was she delighted when Maggie forgot something. When
that happened she said nothing; her mouth curled a little. She treated
Maggie less and less to her garrulous confidences. They would sit for
hours in the drawing-room together without exchanging a word. Maggie
and Paul had now different bedrooms. Early in the autumn Maggie had a
little note from Mr. Magnus. It said:

"You have not written to any of us for months. Won't you come just for
a night to see your aunts? At least let us know that you are happy."

She cried that night in bed, squeezing her head into the pillow so that
no one should hear her. She seemed to have lost all her pluck. She must
do something, but what? She did not know how to deal with