I watched him closely, day by day, in an agony of doubt and pain.

For, though he said nothing, a great change was creeping over "the
lad," as I still fondly called him. His strength, the glory of a
young man, was going from him--he was becoming thin, weak,
restless-eyed. That healthy energy and gentle composure, which had
been so beautiful in him all his life through, were utterly lost.

"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.