the rail at the foot, was Alice, just as sleep had overtaken her.

Lawford returned to the door and listened. It seemed he heard a
voice talking downstairs, and yet not talking, for it ran on and
on in an incessant slightly argumentative monotony that had
neither break nor interruption. He closed the door, and stooping
laid his hand softly on Alice's narrow, still childish hand that
lay half-folded on her knee. Her eyes opened instantly and gazed
widely into his face. A slow vacant smile of sleep came and went
and her fingers tightened gently over his as again her lids
drooped down over the drowsy blue eyes.

'At last, at last, dear,' she said; 'I have been waiting such a
time. But we mustn't talk much. Mother is waiting up, reading.'

Faintly through the close-shut door came the sound of that
distant expressionless voice monotonously rising and falling.

'Why didn't you tell me, dear?' Alice still sleepily whispered.
'Would I have asked a single question? How could I? Oh, if you
had only trusted me!'

'But the change--the change, Alice! You must have seen that. You
spoke to me, you did think I was only a stranger; and even when
you knew, it was only fear on your face, dearest, and aversion;
and you turned to your mother first. Don't think, Alice, that I
am...God only knows--I'm not complaining. But truth is best
whatever it is. I do feel that. You mustn't be afraid of hurting
me, my dear.'