* * * *

A few days later Maurice stood at the garden gate and helped Lily into
the carriage that was to take her to the station. A summons to a patient
prevented him from seeing her and the Canon off on their journey
northwards. Just before Lily put her foot on the step she stopped and
wavered.

"Wait a moment," she said.

She ran back into the little house which had been her home since she was
married. Maurice supposed that she had forgotten something. But she only
peeped into her bedroom, into the gay drawing-room, into Maurice's den.
And as she looked at this last little chamber, at the books, the ruffled
writing-table, the pipes ranged against the wall, her photograph
standing in a silver frame upon the mantelpiece, her eyes filled with
tears, and there was a stricken feeling at her heart.

"Lily, you will miss the train," Maurice called to her.

She hurried out, got into the carriage and was driven away, wondering
why she had gone back to take a last glance at her home, why she had
scarcely been able to see it for her tears.

That evening Maurice returned from his round of visits in a curious
state of excitement and of anticipation, mingled with nervous dread. He
felt as if the eyes of the dead child were upon all his doings, as if
the mind of the dead child pondered every act of his, as if the brain of
the dead child were busy about his life, as if the soul of the dead
child concerned itself for ever with his soul, which it had secretly
dedicated to a loneliness assured now by the departure of Lily. By
living alone, even for a few weeks, was he not in a measure obeying the
desire of the little spirit, which possessed his fate like some
inexorable Providence? If so, dare he not hope for an interval of peace,
for that stillness after which he longed with an anxiety that was like a
physical pain?

He entered his house. Twilight was falling, and the hall, in which on
the previous night the child had complained in so grievous a manner, was
shadowy. He stood there and listened. He heard the distant wash of the
sea, the voices of two servants talking together behind the swing door
that led to the kitchen. No sound mingled with the sea, or with the
chattering voices. Slowly he ascended the stairs and entered the
bedroom, in which Lily had slept quietly, while he, by her side, endured
the persecution of the child. The blinds were up. The dying daylight
crept slowly from the room, making an exi