he present seeming only a dream. All the processes of her mind
were slow, sinewless. She tried to hope for something, to expect that
something would happen, but could not summon the energy. Resentment,
revolt, bitterness of spirit, of these things she knew just as little.
They had been strong enough within her at first, but how long ago that
seemed! She had no thought of time in the present; to sit waiting for
an hour meant as little as to wait five minutes; such was the habit
that had become impressed upon her by interminable days and nights.
When at length she heard a knock at the door it filled her with fear;
she started to her feet and looked with unintelligent eyes at the woman
who again presented herself.

"Do you feel better, 'm?" the landlady asked. "Have you rested
yourself?"

"Yes, thank you."

The woman went away; then came another knock, and Mr. Woodstock entered
the room. He closed the door behind him, and drew near. She had again
started up, and did not move her eyes from his face.

"Have you any recollection of me?" Abraham asked, much embarrassed in
her presence, his voice failing to be as gentle as he wished through
his difficulty in commanding it.

Ida had recognised him at once. He had undergone no change since that
day when she saw him last in Milton Street, and at this moment it was
much easier for her to concentrate her thoughts upon bygone things than
to realise the present.

"You are Abraham Woodstock," she said very coldly, the resentment
associated with the thought of him being yet stronger than the dead
habit which had but now oppressed her.

"Yes, I am. And I am a friend of Osmond Waymark. I should like to talk
a little with you, if you'll let me."

The old man found it so hard to give expression to the feelings that
possessed him. Ida concluded at once that he came with some hostile
purpose, and the name of Waymark was an incentive to her numbed
faculties.

"How can you be a friend of Osmond Waymark?" she asked, with cold
suspicion.

"Didn't he ever mention my name to you?"

"Never."

Waymark had in truth always kept silence with Ida about his
occupations, though he had spoken so freely of them to Maud. He could
not easily have explained to himself why he had made this difference,
though it had a significance. Mr. Woodstock was almost at a loss how to
proceed. He coughed, and moved his foot uneasily.

"I have known him all his life, for all that," he said. "And it was
thro