If, in the night that followed, a wish could have put an end to his existence, Piers would have died. He saw no hope in living, and the burden seemed intolerable. Love-anguish of one-and-twenty; we smile at it, but it is anguish all the same, and may break or mould a life. CHAPTER VII A week went by, and Piers was as far as ever from resuming his regular laborious life. One day he spent in London. His father's solicitor had desired to see him, in the matter of the legacy; Piers received his money, and on the same day made over one hundred and fifty pounds to Daniel Otway, whom he met by appointment; in exchange, Daniel handed him a beautifully written I.O.U., which the younger brother would pocket only with protest. Another week passed. Piers no longer pretended to keep his usual times; he wandered forth whenever home grew intolerable, and sometimes snatched his only sleep in the four-and-twenty hours under the hawthorn blossom of some remote meadow. His mood had passed into bitterness. "I was well before; why did she interfere with me? She did it knowing what would happen; it promised her amusement. I should have kept to myself, and have been safe. She waylaid me. That first meeting on the stairs----" He raged against her and against all women. One evening, towards sunset, he came home dusty and weary and with a hang-dog air, for he had done something which made him ashamed. Miles away from Ewell thirst and misery had brought him to a wayside inn, where--the first time for years--he drank strong liquor. He drank more than he needed, and afterwards fell asleep in a lane, and woke to new wretchedness. As he entered the house and was about to ascend the stairs, a voice called to him. It was Mrs. Hannaford's; she bade him come to her in the drawing-room. Reluctantly he moved thither. The lady was sitting idle and alone; she looked at him for a moment without speaking, then beckoned him forward. "Your brother has been here," she said, in a low voice not quite her own. "Daniel?" "Yes. He called very soon after you had gone out. He wouldn't--couldn't stay. He'll let you know when he is coming next time." "Oh, all right." "Come and sit down." She pointed to a chair next hers. "How tired you look!" Her tone was very soft, and, as he seated himself, she touched his arm gently. The room was scented with roses. A blind, half-drawn on the open window, broke the warm western rays; upon a tree near by, a garden warbler was piping evensong. "What is it?" she asked, with a timid kindness. "What has happened? Won't you tell me?" "You know--I am sure you know----" His voice was choked into silence. "But you will get over it--oh, yes, you will! Your work----" "I can't work!" he broke out vehemently--"I shall never work again. She has changed all my life. I must find something else to do--I don't care what. I can't go in for that examination." Then abruptly he turned to her with a look of eagerness.