But some day she would put this little book of manuscript into his hands, and the shadowy bars between him and her would vanish.

She could only write in it late at night, when the still voice within spoke clearly amid the hush.

The only sound from the outer world was that of a train now and then speeding by, and that carried her thoughts to Wilfrid, who had journeyed far from her into other countries.

Emily loved silence, the nurse of the soul; the earliest and the latest hours were to her most dear.

It had never been to her either an impulse or a joy to realise the existence of the mass of mankind; she had shrunk, after the first excitement, from the thronged streets of London, passing from them with delight to the quiet country.