y to the great silent sea of death
and oblivion, to the dark night whose silence is only sometimes stirred
by vague whispers, anxious yet faint, dying upon the ear before the
sense can seize them.

CHAPTER II

Parties in Oxford always break up early, and Milly had a good excuse for
carrying her aching, disappointed heart back to Ascham at ten o'clock,
for every one knew she was working hard. Too hard, Mr. Fletcher said,
looking concernedly at her heavy eyes, mottled complexion, and the
little crumples which were beginning to come in her low white forehead.
Her cousins, however, had more than a suspicion that these marks of care
and woe were not altogether due to her work, but that Ian Stewart was
accountable for most of them.

The Professor escorted her to the gates of the Ladies' College; but she
walked down the dark drive alone, mindful of familiar puddles, and
hearing nothing of those mysterious whispers of night which in Ian
Stewart's ears had breathed a "ground" to his troubled thoughts of her.

She mounted the stairs to her room at the top of the house. It was an
extremely neat room, and by day, when the bed was disguised as a sofa,
and the washstand closed, there was nothing to reveal that it served as
a bedroom, although a tarnished old mirror hung in a dark corner. The
oak table and pair of brass candlesticks upon it were kept in shining
order by Milly's own zealous hands.

Milly found her books open at the right place and her writing materials
ready to hand. In a very few minutes her outer garments and simple
ornaments were put away, and clothed in a clean but shrunk and faded
blue dressing-gown, she sat down to work. The work was Aristotle's
_Ethics_, and she was going through it for the second time, amplifying
her notes. But this second time the Greek seemed more difficult, the
philosophic argument more intricate than ever. She had had very little
sleep for weeks, and her head ached in a queer way as though something
inside it were strained very tight. It was plain that she had come to
the end of her powers of work for the present--and she had calculated
that only by not wasting a day, except for a week's holiday at Easter,
could she get through all that had to be done before the Schools!

She put Aristotle away and opened Mommsen, but even to that she could
not give her attention. Her thoughts returned to the bitter
disappointment which the evening had brought. Ian Stewart had been next
her a