fore them.

'I will go on to the bridge,' Emily said. 'The boat I return by will
leave shortly.'

She spoke as if expecting him to take leave of her. Wilfrid inwardly
bade himself do so. He had seen her, had talked with her; what more for
either? Yet it was beyond his power to stand here and see her walk away
from him. Things were stirring in his heart and mind of which he refused
to take cognisance; he would grant nothing more than a sense of pleasure
in hearing once again a voice which had so long been buried, and there
was no harm in that. Was not his strongest feeling merely surprise at
having met her thus? Even yet he found a difficulty in realising that it
was she with whom he spoke; had he closed his eyes and then looked round
for her in vain it would only have appeared the natural waking from
intense reverie. Why not dream on as long as he might?

'May I not walk as far as the bridge with you?' he asked. 'If I were not
afraid of being tiresome I should even like to go by the boat; it would
be the pleasantest way of getting back to town.'

'Yes, it is pleasant on the river,' Emily said rather absently.

They pursued their walk together, and conversed still much in the same
way. Wilfrid learned that her school was in Hammersmith, a large
day-school for girls; he led her to speak of the subjects she taught,
and of her pupils.

'You prefer it,' he asked, 'to private teaching?'

'I think so.'

Once on the boat their talk grew less consecutive; the few words they
exchanged now and then were suggested by objects or places passed. At
length even these remarks ceased, and for the last half-hour they held
silence. Other people close by were talking noisily. Emily sat with both
hands holding the book upon her lap, her eyes seldom moving from a point
directly before her. Wilfrid glanced at her frequently. He was more
observant now of the traces of bodily weakness in her; he saw how meagre
she had become, how slight her whole frame was. At moments it cost him a
serious effort to refrain from leaning to her and whispering words--he
knew not what--something kind, something that should change her fixed
sadness. Why had he forced his company upon her? Certainly he brought
her no joy, and presently he would take leave of her as any slight
acquaintance might; how otherwise? It would have been better to part
there by the lake where she offered the occasion.

The steamer reached Hammersmith. Only at this last moment he see