, and that an
agricultural labourer, who hardly uses his eyes at all, has rarely in
the decline of life so good a sight as the watchmaker or the student. I
have read immensely all my life, and find myself no worse for that
indulgence. But you may read the debates to me if you like, my dear, for
if my eyes are strong, I myself am very tired. Sick to death, Mary, sick
to death.'

The splendid eyes turned from Mary, and looked away to the blue sky, to
the hills in their ineffable beauty of colour and light--shifting,
changing with every moment of the summer day. Intense weariness, a
settled despair, were expressed in that look--tearless, yet sadder than
all tears.

'It must be very monotonous, very sad for you,' murmured Mary, her own
eyes brimming over with tears. 'But it will not be always so, dear
grandmother. I hope a time will come when you will be able to go about
again, to resume your old life.'

'I do not hope, Mary. No, child, I feel and know that time will never
come. My strength is ebbing slowly day by day. If I live for another
year, live to see Lesbia married, and you, too, perhaps--well, I shall
die at peace. At peace, no; not----' she faltered, and the thin,
semi-transparent hand was pressed upon her brow. 'What will be said of
me when I am dead?'

Mary feared that her grandmother's mind was wandering. She came and
knelt beside the couch, laid and her head against the satin pillows,
tenderly, caressingly.

'Dear grandmother, pray be calm,' she murmured.

'Mary, do not look at me like that, as if you would read my heart. There
are hearts that must not be looked into. Mine is like a charnel-house.
Monotonous, yes; my life has been monotonous. No conventual gloom was
ever deeper than the gloom of Fellside. My boy did nothing to lighten it
for me, and his son followed in his father's footsteps. You and Lesbia
have been my only consolation. Lesbia! I was so proud of her beauty, so
proud and fond of her, because she was like me, and recalled my own
youth. And see how easily she forgets me. She has gone into a new world,
in which my age and my infirmities have no part; and I am as nothing to
her.'

Mary changed from red to pale, so painful was her embarrassment. What
could she say in defence of her sister? How could she deny that Lesbia
was an ingrate, when those rare and hurried letters, so careless in
their tone, expressing the selfishness of the writer in every syllable,
told but too plainly of forgetf