'That I might spare thee something of thy labour.'

'That were no kindness. I am not like thee; I find labour a thing to
be courted rather than spared; I am not overwrought.'

Scudamore gazed into her grey eyes, but found there nothing to
contradict, nothing to supplement the indifference of her words.
There was no lurking sparkle of humour, no acknowledgment of
kindness. There was a something, but he could not understand it, for
his poor shapeless soul might not read the cosmic mystery embodied
in their depths. He stammered--who had never known himself stammer
before, broke the joints of an ill-fitted answer, swept the tiles
with the long feather in his hat, and found himself parted from her,
with the feeling that he had not of himself left her, but had been
borne away by some subtle force emanating from her.

Lord Herbert had again left the castle. More soldiers and more must
still be raised for the king. Now he would be paying his majesty a
visit at Oxford, and inspecting the life-guards he had provided him,
now back in South Wales, enlisting men, and straining every power in
him to keep the district of which his father was governor in good
affection and loyal behaviour.

Winter drew nigh, and stayed somewhat the rushx of events, clogged
the wheels of life as they ran towards death, brought a little sleep
to the world and coolness to men's hearts--led in another Christmas,
and looked on for a while.

Nor did the many troubles heaped on England, the drained purses, the