“You were speaking of souls,” she said, presently, in a somewhat defiant tone. “What do you mean by souls?” “You ought to know,” he returned. “Do you not go to church every Sunday, and say your prayers?” “I did so while _he_ was here—but never again, never again!” she said, in tones so despairing that Hugh’s growing hardness of humour was melted. “Why not?” he asked, gently. “I was getting to believe that there might be a good God,” she said. “That—is crushed—now I _know_ there is not!” “You do not know what you are saying, poor child!” said Hugh. What was he to do? What to say? Never in his life had he felt so helpless in thought and word. She looked up at him with a sad, but quiet little smile. “Would _you_, hard as you can be, have taken my father from me?” she said. “I thought your mind was larger, stronger,” said Hugh, eagerly. “That you could distinguish between this little life and eternity; between our poor human ideas and the Eternal Must Be. I am disappointed.” She sighed. “I knew it,” she murmured, twisting her fingers. “I knew that when you saw me as I really am, you would despise me!” “Pray, pray do not misunderstand me,” said Hugh, almost hopelessly. “It seems to me that all the trouble in life comes from people wilfully misunderstanding each other. Will you not believe in my devotion to you, that I am ready to do, to suffer anything for you?” “I am not worth it,” she sighed. “And—really it seems to me that I don’t care whether I am or not, or indeed, what happens!” She was so listlessly miserable that Hugh re-assumed his professional manner. She was suffering from the shock. She required complete rest. It never occurred to him that if he had taken her to his heart, then and there, without question or reserve, that complete rest would have been hers. Instead, he sent her upstairs to Mrs. Mervyn, devoutly kissing her hand at parting, with the kind, cool words: “Remember, you have a brother who is ready to serve you day or night.” So Lilia went wearily up the old staircase and scared Mrs. Mervyn, who was scribbling notes at the writing-table in her room, by looking more ghostlike than when she left her. “Well?” said that lady, who had quite concluded that the young people would understand each other. “Well? What?” she asked languidly. “Mr. Paull said I had better lie down. Lie down, indeed! As if I could rest!” “But—you understand each other?” Mrs. Mervyn asked, with a shade of anxiety in her tone. She felt her position somewhat onerous. “Perfectly,” said Lilia. “We are quite agreed—we have adopted each other as brother and sister—oh, father, father!” And she broke down completely, sobbing hysterically for a long time. When she was quieted, and was seemingly asleep, Mrs. Mervyn had time to reflect. What were those two about?