“I doubt if that had anything to do with it.  It was probably the crash of the window blowing in that woke you, although you did not know it; she may not have lain there but a moment.  You overcame the slight chill, if there was one, with your prompt measures.  You brought her downstairs, and carried her back.  There was no strain whatever upon her, it was all upon you.  Dr. Burns has told me that her heart-action was the weakest and most irregular he had encountered; that, at any hour, without seeming provocation, it might stop.  Why should you mourn?  It was a happy way to go—­merely to stop breathing, as her attitude and expression show she did.  Her hour had come—­you had nothing to do with it.  Take that to your heart, and don’t blame yourself for one moment more.”

She lay back in the chair again, relaxing a little under the firm words.

“Shall I go now and send Mrs. Macauley?  It is nearly ten o’clock, time we were letting them know.  But before I go let me tell you one thing, then I will say no more to-night.  There is no more now to come between us than there was a year ago when—­listen, Charlotte—­we knew—­we both knew—­that we belonged to each other, and nothing waited but the spoken word.  I dare to say this to you, for I am sure, in my inmost soul, that you know as well as I do where we stood at that time.  And—­the thing is gone which came between us afterward.”

He stood up, put on his coat, said quietly:  “You shall be alone but a very short time,” and went out.

Left alone Charlotte laid both arms suddenly down upon the arm of the chair—­Granny’s chair—­and broke into a passion of weeping.  It lasted only for a little while, then she raised herself suddenly, threw back her head, lifted both arms high—­it was an old gesture of hers when she was commanding her own self-control—­gripping the clenched fists tight.  Then, as steps and the sound of voices were heard outside, she stood up, holding herself quietly.

When Mrs. Macauley came in, excitedly sympathetic and eager to comfort, she found a quiet mourner ready to talk with her more composedly than she herself was able to do.  Martha, shocked though she was by the sudden call, was full of curiosity as to the return of John Leaver, and only Charlotte’s reticent dignity of manner kept back a torrent of eager questions.

“It’s certainly very fortunate he’s here,” she admitted.  “He can take charge of the journey South, knowing trains and routes much better than Jim or I do.  Of course we will go with you, dear.  I judge from what Dr. Leaver says he will go all the way—­which will certainly be a comfort.  He seems so strong and capable—­so changed from the way he acted when he first came here, languid and indifferent.  Oh, how sorry Red and Ellen will be not to be here!  Red was so fond of dear Madam Chase.”

Martha proved not unpleasant company for that first night, for her practical nature was always getting the better of her notion that she must speak only of things pertaining to the occasion.  She went out into Charlotte’s kitchen and stirred about there, returning with a tray of light, hot food.  She had been astonished at the meagreness of the supplies she found, but made no comment.