icked benumbingly the
long hours away; the wind howled, or the wind was still; snow fell, or
it was frostily clear; but nothing happened--nothing at all. The day
was well advanced before she left her bed for the seat by the stove;
there she brooded until she dragged herself back to bed. One day was
the exact counterpart of another.

The only break in the deathlike monotony was Maurice's visit. He came
in, fresh, and eager to see her; he held her hand and said kind things
to her; he talked persuasively, and she listened or not, as she felt
disposed. But little though he was able to touch her, she unconsciously
began to look to his visits; and one day, when he was detained and
could not come, she was aware of a feeling of injury at his absence.

As time went by, however, Maurice felt more and more clearly that he
was making no headway. His uneasiness increased; for her want of spirit
had something about it that he could not understand. It began to look
to him like a somewhat morbid indulgence in grief.

"This can't go on," he said sternly.

She was in one of her most pitiable moods; for there were gradations in
her unhappiness, as he had learned to know.

"This can't go on. You are killing yourself by inches--and I'm a party
to it."

For the first time, there was a hint of impatience in his manner. To
his surprise, Louise raised her head, raised it quickly, as he had not
seen her make a movement for weeks.

"By inches? Inches only? Oh, I am so strong ... Nothing hurts me.
Nothing is of any use."

"If you look in the glass, you will see that you're hurting yourself
considerably."

"You mean that I'm getting old?--and ugly?" she caught him up. "Do you
think I care?--Oh, if I had only had the courage, that day! A few
grains of something, and it would have been all over, long ago. But I
wasn't brave enough. And now I have no more courage in me than strength
in my little finger."

Maurice looked meditatively at her, without replying: this was the
single occasion on which she had been roused to a retort of any kind;
and, bitter though her words were, he could not prevent the spark of
hope which, by their means, was lit in him.

And from this day on, things went forward of themselves. Again and
again, some harmless observation on his part drew forth a caustic reply
from her; it was as if, having once experienced it, she found an outcry
of this kind a relief to her surcharged nerves. At first, what she said
was dir