rying out my boots, my gloves, my sasake an eye-glass to my jeo sell t o her young man . . .

    You are distracted, Maud, my uncle says. ion to wtend?

    No, sir, I say.

    Pertle labour. Per I  you at taking you from t perics, than among books? hmm?

    No, Uncle.

    urn to es. But he goes on.

    It ter enougo summon Mrs Stiles and ake you back. You are sure you dont desire me to do t?—send for illiam Inker and t? As o study me, acles t guard it. t smiles.   voice,  you know now?

    sloion over; as if it is a biscuit t  crumbs beneatongue. I do not ans loil . Presently s  the pages upon his desk.

    So, so. tuation all complete; and mark—te the sequence here.

    It is from t I am reading ake me back to my dra ted ing finger t my uncle keeps to mark t Briar, just as I once did; and—again, like me—in  see it,

    and tries to cross it. I must keep , more even t!—and o ouc the feel of my fingers.

    I say, Dont be frighe floor.

    I ten t, of course, s look at anyt all, it would be so muceful kind of envy. I o draw back my hand from her arm, for fear I will pinch her.

    I ask o my room,  does shink of my uncle?

    Sionary.

    e sit at luncite, and pass my plate to c be an auctioneer, a : sem of cutlery as if gauging tal from . Ss tly into  s t t about t. Soucongue to some spot upon hen swallows again.

    You o Briar, I to swallow up me.

    But of course, I  o do it. I need o do it. And already I seem to feel my