The train was late that night, an hour behind time, and the spring rain was falling outside and the gas was lighted within when I heard the sound of wheels stopping at the door and went to meet my brother.  But only my brother.  There was no Daisy with him.  He came in alone, with such an awful look on his white face as made me cry out with alarm.

“What it is, Guy, and where is Daisy?” I asked, as he staggered against the banister, where he leaned heavily.

He did not answer my question, but said, “Take me to my room,” in a voice I would never have known for Guy’s.  I took him to his room, made him lie down, and brought him a glass of wine, and then, when he was strong enough to tell it, listened to the shameful story, and felt that henceforth and forever I must and would hate the woman who had wounded my Guy so cruelly.

And still there is some good in her—­some sense of right and wrong, as was shown by a strange thing which happened when Guy was at the worst of the terrible fever which followed his coming home.  I watched him day and night, I would not even let Julia Hamilton share my vigils, and one night when I was worn out with fatigue and anxiety I fell asleep upon the lounge, where I threw myself for a moment.  How long I slept I never knew, but it must have been an hour or more, for the last thing I remember was hearing the whistle of the Western train and the sighing of the wind, which sounded like rain, and when I awoke the rain was falling heavily and the clock was striking twelve, which was an hour after the train was due.  It was very quiet in the room, and darker than usual, for someone had shaded the lamp from my eyes as well as Guy’s so that at first I did not see distinctly, but I had an impression that there was a figure sitting by Guy near the bed.  Julia, most likely, I thought, and I called her by name, feeling my blood curdle in my veins and my heart stand still with something like fear when a voice I knew so well and never expected to hear again, answered softly: 

“It is not Julia.  It’s me!”

There was no faltering in her voice, no sound of apology.  She spoke like one who had a right there, and this it was which angered me and made me lose my self-command.  Starting to my feet, I confronted her where she sat in my chair, by Guy’s bedside, with those queer blue eyes of hers fixed so questioningly upon me as if she wondered at my impertinence.

“Miss McDonald,” I said, laying great stress on the name, “why are you here, and how did you dare come?”

“I was almost afraid, it was so dark when I left the train, and it kept thundering so,” she replied, mistaking my meaning altogether, “but there was no conveyance at the station, and so I came on alone.  I never knew Guy was sick.  Is he very bad?”

Her perfect composure and utter ignoring of the past provoked me beyond endurance, and without stopping to think what I was doing, I seized her arm, and drawing her into an adjoining room, said, in a suppressed whisper of rage: