As she entered the gate she saw that O’Hara’s windows were dark, and while a sigh of relief escaped her, she felt a swift contraction of her throat as if she had become suddenly paralyzed and was unable to swallow.  “I hope he has gone,” she said to herself in a whisper.  “If he has gone, everything will be so much easier.”  But even to herself she could not explain what it was that would be made easier.  Her relief was so vague that when she endeavoured to put it into words it seemed to dissolve and evaporate.

Miss Polly was watering the flowers in the window box, and turning, with the green watering-pot in her hand, she stared at Gabriella in silence for a minute before she exclaimed anxiously:  “Mercy on us, Gabriella, what on earth, is the matter?”

“Nothing.  I’ve had a hard day, and I’m tired.”

“Well, you lie right straight down as soon as you take off your hat.  I declare you look ten years older than you did this morning.”

“I have seen Florrie for a minute.”

“I reckon that was enough to upset anybody.  Did she say she was sorry?”

“Sorry!  She looked as if she had never been sorry for anything in her life.  She was handsomer than ever—­don’t you remember how much you always admired her figure?—­and she didn’t look a day over twenty-five.  I don’t believe she has ever known what it is to feel a regret.”

“Well, you just wait, honey,” responded Miss Polly consolingly, “you just wait.  She’ll be punished yet as sure as you’re born.”

“Oh, I’m not waiting for that.  I don’t wish her to be punished.  Why should I?  She is what she is.”

“Do you s’pose she knows about George?”

“I doubt it.  She didn’t speak of his death.  She is quite capable of forgetting that she ever knew him, and if she does, think of him, it is probably as a man who betrayed her innocence.  You may be sure she has twisted it all about until every shred of the blame rests on somebody else.  Florrie isn’t the only woman who is made like that, but I believe,” she reasoned it out coolly, “that it is her way of keeping her youth.”

Miss Polly had put down the watering-pot, and she came presently with a bottle of camphor to the sofa where Gabriella was lying.  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to rub your head?” she inquired.  “Dinner will be ready in a minute, but I shouldn’t change my dress if I were you.”

Gabriella rose slowly to a sitting position, and then stood up while she pushed the camphor away.  “I hate the smell of it,” she answered; “it makes me think of one of Jane’s attacks.  And, besides, I don’t need it.  There is nothing in the world the matter with me.”  A moment later, to Miss Polly’s unspeakable amazement, she sank down again, flung her arms over the back of the sofa, and burst into tears.

“Well, I never!” ejaculated Miss Polly, rooted to the spot.  “Well, I never!” In the ten years she had lived with Gabriella she had never seen her cry—­not even after George’s flight—­and she felt as if the solid ground on which she stood had crumbled without warning, and left her insecurely balanced in space.  “Something certainly must be wrong, for it ain’t like you to give way.  Are you real sure you ain’t got a pain somewhere?”