"What am I to do with thee, David?" said I to him one evening, when he had come in, looking worse than usual—I knew why; for Ursula and her friend had just passed our house taking their pleasant walk in the spring twilight. "Thou art very ill, I fear?"
"Not at all. There is not the least thing the matter with me. Do let me alone."
Two minutes afterwards he begged my pardon for those sharp-spoken words. "It was not THEE that spoke, John," I said.
"No, you are right, it was not I. It was a sort of devil that lodges here:" he touched his breast. "The chamber he lives in is at times a burning hell."
He spoke in a low tone of great anguish. What could I answer? Nothing.
We stood at the window, looking idly out. The chestnut trees in the Abbey-yard were budding green: there came that faint, sweet sound of children at play, which one hears as the days begin to lengthen.
"It's a lovely evening," he said.
"John!" I looked him in the face. He could not palm off that kind deceit upon me. "You have heard something about her?"
"I have," he groaned. "She is leaving Norton Bury."
"Thank God!" I muttered.