ng no lover of solitude in his
pleasures, he wished to persuade Maurice to become a grass widower for
three weeks.

"Can you let Lily go?" he said. "I know it is a shame to leave you
alone, but--"

He stopped, surprised at the sudden brightness that had come into
Maurice's usually pale and grave face. Maurice saw his astonishment and
hastened to allay it.

"I shall miss Lily of course," he began. "Still, if you want her, and
she is anxious to go--"

"I have not mentioned it to her," the Canon said.

And at this moment Lily came into the room. The project was laid before
her. She hesitated, looking from her father to her husband. Her
perplexity seemed to both the men curiously acute, even to Maurice who
was on fire to hear her decision. The prospect of solitude was sweet to
his tormented heart now that he was possessed by the fancy that Lily's
presence intensified his martyrdom. Yet Lily's obvious disturbance of
mind surprised him. The two courses open to her were really so simple
that there seemed no possible reason why she should look upon the taking
of one of them as a momentous matter.

"Well, Lily, what do you say?" the Canon asked, after a pause. "Will you
come with me?"

"But Maurice--"

"Maurice permits it, and I want you."

"I--I had not meant to leave home at present, father, not till after--"

She stopped abruptly.

"Till after what, my dear?" enquired the Canon.

She made no answer.

"Lily," Maurice said, trying to make his voice cool and indifferent, "I
think you ought to go. It will do you good. Do not mind me. I shall
manage very well for a little while."

"You would rather I went, Maurice?"

"I think we ought not to let your father go on his holiday alone."

"I will go," she said quietly.

So it was arranged. The Canon was jubilant at the prospect of his
daughter's company, and asked her where they should travel.

"What do you say to the English Lakes, Lily?" he asked, "they are lovely
at this time of year, and the rush of the tourist season has scarcely
begun. Shall we go there?"

"Wherever you like, father," she said.

The Canon was feeling too gay to notice the preoccupation of her manner,
the ungirlish gravity of her voice. That day, in the evening, when she
was at dinner with Maurice, Lily said:

"You lived near the Lakes once, didn't you, Maurice?"

"Yes," he said.

"What was the name of the valley?"

He told her.

"And the house?"

"End Cottage. It was close to