heard the well-known click of the chain, and she saw Paul fling open the gate, push his bicycle into the yard. She saw him look at the house, and she shrank away. He walked in a nonchalant fashion, and his bicycle went with him as if it were a live thing.

“Paul’s come!” she exclaimed.

“Aren’t you glad?” said Agatha cuttingly.

Miriam stood still in amazement and bewilderment.

“Well, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes, but I’m not going to let him see it, and think I wanted him.”

Miriam was startled. She heard him putting his bicycle in the stable underneath, and talking to Jimmy, who had been a pit-horse, and who was seedy.

“Well, Jimmy my lad, how are ter? Nobbutdd sick an’ sadly, like? Why, then, it’s a shame, my owdde lad.”

She heard the rope run through the hole as the horse lifted its head from the lad’s caress. How she loved to listen when he thought only the horse could hear. But there was a serpent in her Eden.21 She searched earnestly in herself to see if she wanted Paul Morel. She felt there would be some disgrace in it. Full of twisted feeling, she was afraid she did want him. She stood self-convicted. Then came an agony of new shame. She shrank within herself in a coil of torture. Did she want Paul Morel, and did he know she wanted him? What a subtle infamy upon her. She felt as if her whole soul coiled into knots of shame.

Agatha was dressed first, and ran downstairs. Miriam heard her greet the lad gaily, knew exactly how brilliant her grey eyes became with that tone. She herself would have felt it bold to have greeted him in such wise. Yet there she stood under the self-accusation of wanting him, tied to that stake of torture. In bitter perplexity she kneeled down and prayed:

“O Lord, let me not love Paul Morel. Keep me from loving him, if I ought not to love him.”

Something anomalous in the prayer arrested her. She lifted her head and pondered. How could it be wrong to love him? Love was God’s gift. And yet it caused her shame. That was because of him, Paul Morel. But, then, it was not his affair, it was her own, between herself and God. She was to be a sacrifice. But it was God’s sacrifice, not Paul Morel’s or her own. After a few minutes she hid her face in the pillow again, and said:

“But, Lord, if it is Thy will that I should love him, make me love him—as Christ would, who died for the souls of men.22 Make me love him splendidly, because he is Thy son.”

She remained kneeling for some time, quite still, and deeply moved, her black hair against the red squares and the lavendersprigged squares of the patchwork quilt. Prayer was almost essential to her. Then she fell into that rapture of self-sacrifice, identifying herself with a God who was sacrificed, which gives to so many human souls their deepest bliss.

When she went downstairs Paul was lying back in an armchair, holding forth with much vehemence to Agatha, who was scorning a little painting he had brought to show her. Miriam glanced at the two, and avoided their levity. She went into the parlour to be alone.

It was tea-time before she was able to speak to Paul, and then her manner was so distant he thought he had offended her.

Miriam discontinued her practice of going each Thursday evening to the library in Bestwood. After calling for Paul regularly during the whole spring, a number of trifling incidents and tiny insults from his family awakened her to their attitude towards her, and she decided to go no more. So she announced to Paul one evening she would not call at his house again for him on Thursday nights.

“Why?” he asked, very short.

“Nothing. Only I’d rather not.”

“Very well.”

“But,” she faltered, “if you’d care to meet me, we could still go together.”

“Meet you where?”

“Somewhere—where you like.”

“I shan’t meet you anywhere. I don’t see why you shouldn’t keep calling for me. But if you won’t, I don’t want to meet you.”

So the Thursday evenings which had been so precious to her, and to him, were dropped. He worked instead. Mrs. Morel sniffed with satisfaction at this arrangement.

He would not have it that they were lovers. The intimacy between them had been kept so abstract, such a matter of the soul, all thought and weary struggle into consciousness, that he saw it only as a