Once, as the afternoon was drawing to a close, she felt the hot blood stain her face and prickle the very roots of her hair, as a step, heavier than a woman’s, came along the soft, carpeted hall, and seemed to pause opposite her door, which stood partially ajar.  She was sitting with her back that way, and so the doctor only saw the outline of her graceful form bending over her work, confessing to himself how graceful, how pliant, how girlish it was.  He noted, too, the braids of silken hair drooping behind the well-shaped ears, just as Lily used to wear hers.  Dear Lily!  Her hair was much like Rose Markham’s, not quite so dark, perhaps, or so luxuriant, for seldom had he seen locks so abundant and glossy as those adorning Rose Markham’s head.

Slowly the twilight shadows were creeping over Terrace Hill and into the little room, where, with doors securely shut, Adah was preparing for her accustomed walk to the office.  But what was it which fell like a thunderbolt on her ear, riveting her to the spot, where she stood, rigid and immovable as a block of granite cut from the solid rock?  Between the closet and Anna’s room there was only a thin partition, and when the door was open every sound was distinctly heard.  The doctor had just come in, and it was his voice, heard for the first time, which sent the blood throbbing so madly through Adah’s veins and made the sparks of fire dance before her eyes.  She was not deceived—­the tones were too distinct, too full, too well remembered to be mistaken, and stretching out her hands in the dim darkness, she moaned faintly:  “George! ’tis George!” and she sank upon the floor.  She could hear him now saying to Anna, as her moan fell on his ear, “What was that Anna?  Are we not alone?  I wish to speak my farewell words in private.”

“Yes, all alone,” Anna replied, “unless—­” and stepping to Adah’s door she called twice for Rose Markham.

But Adah, though she tried to do so, could neither move nor speak, and Anna failed to see the figure crouching in the darkness, poor, crushed, wretched Adah, who could not dispute her when returning to her brother she said, “There is no one there; Rose has gone to the post office.  I heard her as she went out.  We are all alone.  Was it anything particular you wished to tell me?”

Again the familiar tones thrilled on Adah’s ears as Dr. Richards replied:  “Nothing very particular.  I only wished to say a few words, ’Lina.  I want you to like her, to make up, if possible, for the love I ought to give her.”

“Ought to give her!  Oh, brother, are you taking ’Lina without love?  Better never make the vow than break it after it is made.”

Anna spoke earnestly, and the doctor, who always tried to retain her good opinion, replied evasively:  “I suppose I do love her as well as half the world love their wives before marriage, but she is different from any ladies I have known; so different from what poor Lily was.  Anna, let me talk with you again of Lily.  I never told you all—­but what is that?” he continued, as he indistinctly heard the choking, gasping, stifled sob which Adah gave at the sound of the dear pet name.  Anna answered:  “It’s only the rising wind.  It sounds so always when it’s in the east.  We surely are alone.  What of Lily?  Do you wish you were going after her instead of ’Lina?”