y father is very
unhappy about us. But he trusts me completely, and I have told him that
you and I must be apart, but only for a time. I shall not write to you
again till I send for you. Even my letter may disturb your peace and I
would give up my life to give you peace."

There was no allusion in the letter to the reason which had led Lily and
her father to the out-of-the-way valley which had seen the dawn of
Maurice's despair. And Maurice was greatly puzzled. Again there came
over him a curious conviction that Lily had some secret from him, some
secret connected with his fate, and that she was waiting for the arrival
of some day, fixed in her mind, on which to make a revelation of her
knowledge to him. This mention of an eventual summons, "by day or
night." What could it mean otherwise? Maurice read the letter again and
again. Its last words touched him by their perfect unselfishness and
also by their feminine romance. He had a moment's thought of the many
emotional stories Lily had read. "She lives in one now," he said to
himself. And then, as usual, he became self-engrossed, saw only his own
life, possibly touched for ever with a light of peace.

The Canon returned alone. He met Maurice gravely, almost sternly.

"I trust my child entirely," he said. "She has told me that for a time
you must live apart. She has made me promise not to ask you the reason
of this separation. I don't ask it, but if you--"

His voice broke and he turned away for a moment. Then he said:

"Lily remains in the place from which she wrote to you."

"She is going to live there!" Maurice exclaimed.

"For the present, I could not persuade her otherwise. Her old nurse,
Mrs. Whitehead, is going up to be with her. I cannot understand all
this."

The old man cast his eyes searchingly upon Maurice.

"What--?" he began, then, remembering his promise to his daughter, he
stopped short.

"We will talk no more about this," he said slowly. "No more."

He bade Maurice good-bye and returned, sorrowful, to the Rectory.

Lily kept her word. Maurice had no more letters from her. He only heard
of her from the Canon, and knew that she remained in that beautiful and
terrible valley, which he remembered so vividly and hated so ardently.
Meanwhile he dwelt in a peace that was strange to him. The little voice
had gone out of his life. The cry of the child was hushed. Often, in the
past, Maurice had contemplated the coming of this exquisite silence, but
h