since that last holiday. For a moment, in the lanes about Finden,
there had come to her a vision of joy such as fate owed her
youth; but it had faded, and she could no longer hope for its
return. She was not a woman, but a mere machine for reading and
writing. Did her father never think of this? He was not the only
one to suffer from the circumstances in which poverty had
involved him.

She had no friends to whom she could utter her thoughts. Dora
Milvain had written a second time, and more recently had come a
letter from Maud; but in replying to them she could not give a
true account of herself. Impossible, to them. From what she wrote
they would imagine her contentedly busy, absorbed in the affairs
of literature. To no one could she make known the aching sadness
of her heart, the dreariness of life as it lay before her.

That beginning of half-confidence between her and her mother had
led to nothing. Mrs Yule found no second opportunity of speaking
to her husband about Jasper Milvain, and purposely she refrained
from any further hint or question to Marian. Everything must go
on as hitherto.

The days darkened. Through November rains and fogs Marian went
her usual way to the Museum, and toiled there among the other
toilers. Perhaps once a week she allowed herself to stray about
the alleys of the Reading-room, scanning furtively those who sat
at the desks, but the face she might perchance have discovered
was not there.

One day at the end of the month she sat with books open before