ous way the matter was hushed up. Even the Silts only
scented "something strange." When Stephen was born, it was abroad. When
he came to England, it was as the child of a friend of Mr. Failing's.
Mrs. Elliot returned unsuspected to her husband.

But though things can be hushed up, there is no such thing as beating
time; and as the years passed she realized her terrible mistake. When
her lover sank, eluding her last embrace, she thought, as Agnes was to
think after her, that her soul had sunk with him, and that never again
should she be capable of earthly love. Nothing mattered. She might as
well go and be useful to her husband and to the little boy who looked
exactly like him, and who, she thought, was exactly like him in
disposition. Then Stephen was born, and altered her life. She could
still love people passionately; she still drew strength from the heroic
past. Yet, to keep to her bond, she must see this son only as a
stranger. She was protected be the conventions, and must pay them their
fee. And a curious thing happened. Her second child drew her towards her
first. She began to love Rickie also, and to be more than useful to him.
And as her love revived, so did her capacity for suffering. Life, more
important, grew more bitter. She minded her husband more, not less; and
when at last he died, and she saw a glorious autumn, beautiful with the
voices of boys who should call her mother, the end came for her as well,
before she could remember the grave in the alien north and the dust that
would never return to the dear fields that had given it.

XXX

Stephen, the son of these people, had one instinct that troubled him.
At night--especially out of doors--it seemed rather strange that he was
alive. The dry grass pricked his cheek, the fields were invisible and
mute, and here was he, throwing stones at the darkness or smoking a
pipe. The stones vanished, the pipe would burn out. But he would be here
in the morning when the sun rose, and he would bathe, and run in the
mist. He was proud of his good circulation, and in the morning it seemed
quite natural. But at night, why should there be this difference between
him and the acres of land that cooled all round him until the sun
returned? What lucky chance had heated him up, and sent him, warm and
lovable, into a passive world? He had other instincts, but these gave
him no trouble. He simply gratified each as it occurred, provided he
could do so without grave injury to