that his conscience would always be at ease on her account.

For he was troubled with a conscience--even with one unusually
poignant. An anecdote from his twentieth year depicts this feature
of the man. He and Narramore were walking one night in a very poor
part of Birmingham, and for some reason they chanced to pause by a
shop-window--a small window, lighted with one gas-jet, and laid
out with a miserable handful of paltry wares; the shop, however, was
newly opened, and showed a pathetic attempt at cleanliness and
neatness. The friends asked each other how it could possibly benefit
anyone to embark in such a business as that, and laughed over the
display. While he was laughing, Hilliard became aware of a woman in
the doorway, evidently the shopkeeper; she had heard their remarks
and looked distressed. Infinitely keener was the pang which Maurice
experienced; he could not forgive himself, kept exclaiming how
brutally he had behaved, and sank into gloominess. Not very long
after, he took Narramore to walk in the same direction; they came
again to the little shop, and Hilliard surprised his companion with
a triumphant shout. The window was now laid out in a much more
promising way, with goods of modest value. "You remember?" said the
young man. "I couldn't rest till I had sent her something. She'll
wonder to the end of her life who the money came from. But she's
made use of it, poor creature, and it'll bring her luck."

Only the hopeless suppression of natural desires, the conflict
through years of ardent youth with sordid circumstances, could have
brought him to the pass he had now reached--one of desperation
centred in self. Every suggestion of native suavity and prudence was
swept away in tumultuous revolt. Another twelvemonth of his slavery
and he would have yielded to brutalising influences which rarely