He left the money on the table and went to Emily in the sitting-room. She was sitting at the table waiting for him with her kindly eyes. 'And what has the wise woman been doing all day?' he asked, trying in vain to overcome that terrible fluttering at his side which caught his breath and made him feel weak. They talked for some minutes, then footsteps were heard approaching from the kitchen. Mrs. Hood entered with her sewing--she always took the very coarsest for such days as this--and sat at a little distance from the table. As the conversation had nothing to do with Cheeseman's debt, she grew impatient. 'Have you told Emily?' she asked. 'No, I haven't. You shall do that.' Hood tried to eat the while; the morsels became like sawdust in his mouth, and all but choked him. He tried to laugh; the silence which followed his effort was ghastly to him. 'You see, it never does to believe too ill of a man,' he said, when he found Emily's look upon him. Mrs. Hood grew mere at her ease, and, to his relief, began to talk freely. Emily tortured him by observing that he had no appetite. He excused himself by telling of his dinner in Hebsworth, and, as soon as possible, left the table. He went upstairs and hoped to find solitude for a time in the garret. Emily joined him, however, before long. At her entrance he caught up the first bottle his hand fell upon, and seemed to be examining it. 'What is that?' Emily asked, noticing his intentness, which in reality had no meaning. 'This? Oh, cyanide of potassium. I was looking--no, it's nothing. Will you read me something for half an hour, Emily?' By this means he would avoid talking, and he knew that the girl was always delighted by the request. She generally read poetry of a kind she thought might touch him, longing to establish more of intellectual sympathy between him and herself. So she did to-night. Hood scarcely followed after the first line; he became lost in feverish brooding. When she laid the volume down, he looked up and held out his hand to her. She, at all events, would not disregard his caress; indeed, Emily took the hand and kissed it. Then began one of the more intimate conversations which sometimes took place between them. Emily was driven now and then to endeavour to make clear to him her inner life, to speak of her ideals, her intellectual convictions. He listened always with an air of deep humility, very touching in a parent before a child. Her meaning was often dark to his sight, but he strove hard to comprehend, and every word she uttered had for him a gospel sanction. To-night his thoughts strayed; her voice was nothing but the reproach of his own soul; the high or tender words were but an emphasis of condemnation, reiterated, pitiless. She was speaking thus out of her noble heart to him--him, the miserable hypocrite; he pretended to listen and to approve. His being was a loathed burden.