The breakfast bell rang at the accustomed hour, but she could not bear the thought of going down and showing her tear-swollen eyes at the table.  Besides, she did not feel hungry; she thought she would never want to eat again.

After a little, opening the door in answer to a rap, she found Agnes standing there with a delightful breakfast on a silver waiter—­hot coffee, delicate rolls and muffins, tender beefsteak, and omelet.

“Good-mornin’, Miss Zoe,” said the girl, walking in and setting her burden down on a stand.  “Miss Elsie she tole me for to fotch up dis yere.  She tink, Miss Elsie do, dat p’raps you’d rather eat yo’ breakfus up yere dis mornin’.”

“Yes, so I would, Agnes, though I’m not very hungry.  Tell mamma she’s very kind, and I’m much obliged.”

“Ya’as, Miss Zoe,” and Agnes courtesied and withdrew.

Zoe took a sip of the coffee, tasted the omelet, found a coming appetite, and went on to make a tolerably hearty meal, growing more cheerful and hopeful as she ate.

But grief overcame her again as she went about the solitary rooms; it seemed as if her husband’s presence lingered everywhere, and yet as if he were dead and buried, and she never to see him more.

Not quite a year had elapsed since her father’s death, and the scenes of that day and night and many succeeding ones came vividly before her; the utter forlornness of her condition, alone in a strange land with a dying parent, with no earthly comforter at hand, no friend or helper in all the wide world, and how Edward then flew to her assistance, how kindly he ministered to her dying father, how tenderly he took her in his arms, whispering words of love and sympathy, and asking her to become his wife and give him the right to protect and care for her.

And how he had lavished favors and endearments upon her all these months; how patiently he had borne with petulance and frequent disregard of his known wishes, nor ever once reminded her that she owed her home and every earthly blessing to him.

How he had sympathized with her in her bursts of grief for her father, soothing her with tenderest caresses and assurances of the bliss of the departed, and reminding her of the blessed hope of reunion in the better land.

After all this, she surely might have borne a little from him—­a trifling neglect or reproof, a slight exertion of authority, especially as she could not deny that she was very young and foolish to be left to her own guidance.

And perhaps he had a right to claim her obedience, for she knew that she had promised to give it.

She found she loved him with a depth and passion she had not been aware of.  But he had gone away without a good-by to her, in anger, and with Miss Deane.  He would never have done that if there had been a spark of love left in his heart.

Where and how was he going to spend that week or ten days?  At the house of Miss Deane’s parents, sitting beside her, hearing her talk and enjoying it, though he knew his little wife at home must be breaking her heart because of his absence?