Nothing would induce Maggie to enter this room, and no words would persuade her to speak of Annabel. She was merry and bright once more, and few gave her credit for secret hours of misery, which were seriously undermining her health and ruining what was best of her character. On this particular day, as she lay back in her carriage, wrapped in costly furs, a great wave of misery and bitterness was sweeping over her heart. In the first agony caused by Annabel’s death Maggie had vowed a vow to her own heart never, under any circumstances, to consent to be Hammond’s wife. In the first misery of regret and compunction it had been easy to Maggie Oliphant to make such a vow; but she knew well, as the days and months went by, that its weight was crushing her life, was destroying her chance of ever becoming a really strong and good woman. If she had loved Hammond a year ago her sufferings made her love him fifty times better now. With all her outward coldness and apparent indifference, his presence gave her the keenest pain. Her heart beat fast when she caught sight of his face; if he spoke to another, she was conscious of being overcome by a spirit of jealousy. The thought of him mingled with her waking and sleeping hours; but the sacrifice she owed to the memory of her dead friend must be made at all hazards. Maggie consulted no one on this subject. Annabel’s unhappy story lay buried with her in her early grave; Maggie would have died rather than reveal it. Now, as she lay back in her carriage, the tears filled her eyes. “I am too weak for this to go on any longer,” she said to herself. “I shall leave St. Benet’s at the end of the present term. What is the winning of a tripos to me? What do I want with honors and distinctions? Everything is barren to me. My life has no flavor in it. I loved Annabel, and she is gone. Without meaning it, I broke Annabel’s heart. Without meaning it, I caused my darling’s death, and now my own heart is broken, for I love Geoffrey— I love him, and I can never, under any circumstances, be his wife. He misunderstands me— he thinks me cold, wicked, heartless— and I can never, never set myself right with him. Soon he will grow tired of me and give his heart to some one else, and perhaps marry some one else. When he does, I too shall die. Yes, whatever happens, I must go away from St. Benet’s.” Maggie’s tears always came slowly; she put up her handkerchief to wipe them away. It was little wonder that when she returned from her drive her head was no better. “We must put off the rehearsal,” said Nancy Banister, She came into Maggie’s room and spoke vehemently. “I saw you at lunch, Maggie: you ate nothing— you spoke with an effort. I know your head is worse. You must lie down, and, unless you are better soon, I will ask Miss Heath to send for a doctor.” “No doctor will cure me,” said Maggie. “Give me a kiss, Nance; let me rest my head against yours for a moment. Oh, how earnestly I wish I was like you.”