"Yes," Maurice said rather crossly. "I am anxious and worried."

"You can do no good by writing?"

"I seem to do harm. Don't talk to me about it, Louisa. Nothing but my
being there could have done any good, and now it is most likely too
late."

She saw plainly enough the fight that was going on--impatience,
eagerness, selfishness of a kind, on one side--duty and compassion on
the other. She had no scruple about seeing just as much of her cousin's
humour as his looks and manner could tell her, and she perceived that at
the moment it was anything but a good or heroic one. She thought it
possible that it would have been a relief to him to have struck, or
shaken, or even kicked something or somebody; and yet she was not at all
tempted to think the worse of him. She did not understand, of course,
the late aggravations of his trouble; but she knew that he loved loyally
and thought his love in danger, and she gave him plenty of sympathy,
whatever that might be worth. She had obtained a considerable amount of
influence over him, and used it, in general, for his good. At present he
was in rather an unmanageable mood, but still she did not mean to let
him escape her.

"He looks dreadfully worried, poor boy!" she said to herself. "Being
shut up here day after day must be bad for him. I shall _make_ Sir John
take him out to-morrow."

But when to-morrow came, and Sir John paid his daily visit to his wife,
she had other things to think about. He found the servants lingering
about the halls and staircases in silent excitement, and in the sick