“You have work to do yet, Karen.  You may take as good care as you can of this lady.”

Again Karen looked curiously and suspiciously at her, for a minute in silence.

“Is she one of the Lord’s people?” she asked suddenly.

Elizabeth looked up on the instant, in utter astonishment at the question; first at Karen and then at Winthrop.  The next thing was a back-sweeping tide of feeling, which made her drop her bread and her cup from her hands, and hide her face in them with a bitter burst of tears.  Winthrop looked concerned, and Karen confounded.  But she presently repeated her question in a half whisper at Winthrop.

“Is she? —­”

“There is more company coming, Karen, for you to take care of,” he said quietly.  “I hope you have cakes enough.  Miss Haye —­ I see the boat-load has arrived —­ will you go into the other room?”

She rose, and not seeing where she went, let him lead her.  The front part of the house was unfurnished; but to the little square passage-way where the open door let in the breeze from the river, Winthrop brought a chair, and there she sat down.  He left her there and went back to see to the other members of the party, and as she guessed to keep them from intruding upon her.  She was long alone.

The fresh sweet air blew in upon her hot face and hands, reminding her what sort of a world it came from; and after the first few violent bursts of pain, Elizabeth presently raised her head to look out and see, in a sort of dogged willingness to take the contrast which she knew was there.  The soft fair hilly outlines she remembered, in the same August light; —­ the bright bend of the river —­ a sloop sail or two pushing lazily up; —­ the same blue of a summer morning overhead; —­ the little green lawn immediately at her feet, and the everlasting cedars, with their pointed tops and their hues of patient sobriety —­ all stood nearly as she had left them, how many years before.  And herself —­ Elizabeth felt as if she could have laid herself down on the doorstep and died, for mere heart-heaviness.  In this bright sunny world, what had she to do?  The sun had gone out of her heart.  What was to become of her?  What miserable part should she play, all alone by herself?  She despised herself for having eaten breakfast that morning.  What business had she to eat, or to have any appetite to eat, when she felt so?  But Winthrop had made her do it.  What for?  Why should he?  It was mere aggravation, to take care of her for a day, and then throw her off for ever to take care of herself.  How soon would he do that? —­

She was musing, her eyes on the ground; and had quite forgotten the sunny landscape before her with all its gentle suggestions; when Winthrop’s voice sounded pleasantly in her ear, asking if she felt better.  Elizabeth looked up.

“I was thinking,” she said, “that if there were nothing better to be had in another world, I could almost find it in my heart to wish I had never been born into this!”