He hoped that Jane would, as was her usual custom, meet him at the door, that she would hear his step and answer the call of it.  But she did not.  Then he remembered that the night had turned chilly and that it was near to dinner-time.  She was probably in her dressing-room, but this uncertainty was not cheerful.  Yet he sang as he prepared himself for dinner.  He did not know why he sang for the song was not in his heart—­he only felt it to be an act of relief and encouragement.

When he went to the dining-room Jane was there.  She roused herself with a sleepy languor and stretched out her arms to him with welcoming smiles.  For a moment he stood motionless and silent.  She had dressed herself wonderfully in a long, graceful robe of white broadcloth, rich and soft and shining as the white satin which lay in folds about the bosom and sleeves and encircled her waist in a broad belt.  Her hair, freed of puffs and braids, showed all its beauty in glossy smoothness and light coils, and in its meshes was one large red rose, the fellow of which was partly hidden among the laces at her bosom.  Half-asleep she went to meet him, and his first feeling was a kind of awe at the sight of her.  He had not dreamed she was so beautiful.  Without a word he took her hands and hiding his emotion in some commonplace remark, drew her to his side.

“You are lovelier than on your bridal morning, most sweet Jane,” he whispered.  “What have you been doing to yourself?”

“Well, John,” she laughed, “Mrs. Tracy sent me word she was going to call between four and five to give me a few points about the girls’ sewing-class, and I thought I would at the same time give her a few points about dressing herself.  You know she is usually a fright.”

“I thought—­perhaps—­you had dressed yourself to please me.”

“You are quite right, John.  Your pleasure is always the first motive for anything I do or wear.”

The dinner hour passed to such pleasant platitudes as John’s description of the manner in which Greenwood broke up the radical meeting in the market-place; but in both hearts and below all the sweet intercourse there lay a sense of tragedy that nothing could propitiate or avert.

The subject, however, was not named till they were quite alone and the very house in its intense stillness appeared to be waiting and listening for the words to be spoken.  John was about to speak them, but Jane rose suddenly to her feet and looking steadily at him said,

“John, what did your mother say about me this afternoon?  I expect you to tell me every word.”

“She would not talk about you in any way.  She said she had given you her whole mind straight to your face and would do no backbiting.  That is, as you know, mother’s way.”

“Well, John, I would rather have the backbiting.  I like to be treated decently to my face.  People are welcome to say whatever they like when I am not present to be annoyed by their evil suspicions.”