rived from him, Mr. Newthorpe always gave it to Annabel to
read; at other times that was a subject on which he spoke only when she
introduced it. After Walter's departure there had been one conversation
between them in which Annabel told what had come to pass; she went so
far as to speak of a certain trouble she had on Paula's account.

'I think you must use your philosophy with regard to Paula,' her father
replied. 'Of course I know nothing of the circumstances, but,' he
smiled not unkindly, 'the child I think I know pretty well. Don't be
troubled. I have confidence in Egremont.'

'I have the same feeling in truth, father,' Annabel said, 'and--I feel
nothing more than that.'

'Then let it rest, dear. I certainly have no desire to lose you.'

So much between them. Thereafter, both spoke of Egremont, when at all,
in an unconstrained way. Annabel showed frank interest in all that
concerned him, but, as far as Mr. Newthorpe could discern, nothing more
than the interest of friendliness. As the months went on, he discerned
no change. Her life was as cheerful and as steadily industrious as
ever; nothing betrayed unsettlement of the thought. If her father by
chance entered the room where she studied, he found her bent over
books, her face beautiful in calm zeal.

The first grave symptoms of illness in her father opened a new chapter
of Annabel's life. It was time to lay aside books for a little; the
fated scheme of her existence required at this point new experiences.
The student's habit does not readily reconcile itself to demands for
practical energy and endurance, and when the first strain of
fear-stricken love was relaxed, Annabel fell for a few days into
grievous weakness of despondency; summoned from her study to all the
miseries of a sick-room, it was mere nervous force that failed her.
When her father had his relapse, she was able to face the demand upon
her more sternly. But the trial through which she was passing was a
severe one. With the invalid she could keep a bright face, and make her
presence, as ever, a blessing to him. Alone, she cared no longer for
her books, nor for the beauty that was about her home. You remember
that passage in her letter to Egremont: 'The world seems to me very
dark, and life a dreadful penalty.' She could have uttered much on that
text to one from whom she had had no secret.

One day, when Mr. Newthorpe was again recovering strength, there came a
letter from Mrs. Tyrrell which ann