-you'll sit with me again as usual?'

'Oh, I hope so!'

A rush of tears had its way as she closed the door, something so deeply
pathetic had there been in that appeal. It was the first time that her
misery had found this outlet; unable to calm herself at once, she turned
aside into her bedroom. Tears did not come to her readily; indeed, it
was years since she had shed them; the fit shook her with physical
suffering. The weeping would not stay itself, and to force her sobs into
silence was almost beyond her power. She flung herself desperately by
the bedside, throwing out her arms in the effort to free her chest from
its anguishing constraint.

In an hour she went down. Her mother was sitting miserably in the
kitchen, and Emily, dreading to have to talk again, kept apart in the
parlour. When it began to dusk, Hood descended, and supper was prepared
for in the usual way. There was small pretence of conversation, and, as
soon as possible, Emily bade her parents good-night. It was long before
she heard them go to their room; they whispered together in passing her
door.

And now the solemn hours shed about her guardian silence, and she could
listen to the voice of her soul. It was incredible that the morning of
the day which was not yet dead had witnessed that scene between her and
Dagworthy on the Castle Hill; long spaces of featureless misery seem to
stretch between. Perforce she had overborne reflection; one torment
coming upon another had occupied her with mere endurance; it was as
though a ruthless hand tore from her shred after shred of the fair
garment in which she had joyed to clothe herself, while a voice
mockingly bade her be in congruence with the sordid shows of the world
around. For a moment, whilst Beethoven sang to her, she knew the light
of faith; but the dull mist crept up again and thickened. Weeping had
not eased her bosom; she had only become more conscious of the load of
tears surcharging it. Now she lay upon her bed in the darkness, hushing
idle echoes of day, waiting upon the spirit that ever yet had comforted
and guided her.

What, divested of all horror due to imagination, was the threat to which
her life lay subject? Dagworthy had it in his power to ruin her father,
to blast his remaining years with a desolation to which the life-long
struggle with poverty would be the mere pleasantry of fate. She could no
longer entertain a doubt of the guilt the first suggestion of which
excited her scornful