began to fall in with it.  What it cost her entertainers, with organization as delicate as uncouth, in the mere matter of bodily labor, she had not an idea—­imagined indeed that she gave them no trouble at all, because, having overheard the conversation between them upon her arrival, she did herself a part of the work required for her comfort in her own room.  She never saw the poor quarters to which Ruth for her sake had banished herself—­never perceived the fact that there was nothing good enough wherewith to repay them except worshipful gratitude, love, admiration, and submission—­feelings she could not even have imagined possible in regard to such inferiors.

And now Dorothy had not a little to say to Juliet about her husband.  In telling what had taken place, however, she had to hear many more questions than she was able to answer.

“Does he really believe me dead, Dorothy?” was one of them.

“I do not believe there is one person in Glaston who knows what he thinks,” answered Dorothy.  “I have not heard of his once opening his mouth on the subject.  He is just as silent now as he used to be ready to talk.”

“My poor Paul!” murmured Juliet, and hid her face and wept.

Indeed not a soul in Glaston or elsewhere knew a single thought he had.  Certain mysterious advertisements in the county paper were imagined by some to be his and to refer to his wife.  Some, as the body had never been seen, did begin to doubt whether she was dead.  Some, on the other hand, hinted that her husband had himself made away with her—­for, they argued, what could be easier to a doctor, and why, else, did he make no search for the body?  To Dorothy this supposed fact seemed to indicate a belief that she was not dead—­perhaps a hope that she would sooner betray herself if he manifested no anxiety to find her.  But she said nothing of this to Juliet.

Her news of him was the more acceptable to the famished heart of the wife, that, from his great kindness to them all, and especially from the perseverance which had restored to them their little Amanda, Dorothy’s heart had so warmed toward him, that she could not help speaking of him in a tone far more agreeable to Juliet than hitherto she had been able to use.  His pale, worn look, and the tokens of trouble throughout his demeanor, all more evident upon nearer approach, had also wrought upon her; and she so described his care, anxiety, and tenderness over Amanda, that Juliet became jealous of the child, as she would have been of any dog she saw him caress.  When all was told, and she was weary of asking questions to which there were no answers, she fell back in her chair with a sigh:  alas, she was no nearer to him for the hearing of her ears!  While she lived she was open to his scorn, and deserved it the more that she had seemed to die!  She must die; for then at last a little love would revive in his heart, ere he died too and followed her nowhither.  Only first she must leave him his child to plead for her:—­she used sometimes to catch herself praying that the infant might be like her.