When the Canon kissed his daughter that night, after Maurice Dale had
gone home, he seemed struck by a new expression in her face.

"Why, how excited you look, child!" he said, "what is it?"

But Lily returned his kiss hastily and ran away without a word. Once in
her room she locked the door--for no reason except that she must mark
the night by some unwonted action--put on her dressing-gown and threw
herself down on her bed. Her mind was alive with thoughts. Her
imagination was in flames. For so much had come upon her that evening.
In the first place she understood that she loved Maurice. She knew
that, when he spoke the words, "My child," and jealousy of an unknown
woman struck like some sharp weapon to her heart. She realised that he
did not love her, yet so great was her simple unselfishness, that she
did not dwell on the knowledge, or blame for an instant the selfishness
which concentrated Maurice's mind so entirely upon himself and his own
sorrow. Her only anxiety was how to help him. Her only feeling was one
of tender pity for his agony. And yet, for Lily was a girl of many
fancies and full of the wilful side-thoughts of women, she found room in
her nature for a highflown sense of personal romance which now wrapped
her round in a certain luxury of complacency. She moved in a strange
story that was true, a story that she might have read with a quickening
of the pulses. She and Maurice, whom she loved, moved in it together
heroine and hero of it. And none knew the story but themselves. And then
she burst into silent tears, calling herself cruel for having this
moment of half joy in the tragedy of another. She pushed down into the
depths of Maurice's misery. And then, with a clearer mind, she sat up on
the bed. It was dead of night now. Was he listening in the silence to
that haunting cry that was destroying him? She wondered breathlessly.
And she recalled the conversation about "The Bells." Was Mathias truly
haunted? or was he mad? She asked herself that, putting Maurice
eventually behind footlights in his place. Was there really a veritable
cry, allowed to come out of the other world to Maurice? or did his
diseased brain work out his retribution? She could not tell. Indeed she
scarcely cared just then. In either event, the result upon him was the
same and was terrible. In either event, the outcome might be what she
dared not name even to herself. And, though he did not love her, he
turned to her for help. Lily f