Suddenly carriage-wheels were heard, and Harry straightened himself.  “That is Ida,” he said.  Then he rose and opened the front door, letting a gust of frosty outside air enter the house, and presently Ida came in.  She was radiant, the most brilliant color on her hard, dimpled cheeks.  The blank dark light of her eyes, and her set smile, were just as Maria remembered them.  She was magnificent in her blue velvet, with her sable furs and large, blue velvet hat, with a blue feather floating over the black waves of her hair.  Maria said to herself that she was certainly a beauty, that she was more beautiful than ever.  She greeted Maria with the most faultless manner; she gave her her cool red cheek to be kissed, and made the suitable inquiries as to her journey, her health, and the health of her relatives in Amity.  When Harry said something about dinner, she replied that she had dined with the Voorhees in the Pennsylvania station, since they had missed the train and had some time on their hands.  She removed her wraps and seated herself before the fire.

When at last Maria went to her own room, she was both pleased and disturbed to find Evelyn in her bed.  She had wished to be free to give way to her terrible grief.  Evelyn, however, waked just enough to explain that she wanted to sleep with her, and threw one slender arm over her, and then sank again into the sound sleep of childhood.  Maria lay sobbing quietly, and her sister did not awaken at all.  It might have been midnight when the door of the room was softly opened and light flared across the ceiling.  Maria turned, and Ida stood in the doorway.  She had on a red wrapper, and she held a streaming candle.  Her black hair floated around her beautiful face, which had not lost its color or its smile, although what she said might reasonably have caused it to do so.

“Your father does not seem quite well,” she said to Maria.  “I have sent Irene and the cook for the doctor.  If you don’t mind, I wish you would get up and slip on a wrapper and come into my room.”  Ida spoke softly for fear of waking Evelyn, whom she had directly seen in Maria’s bed when she opened the door.

Maria sprang up, got a wrapper, put it on over her night-gown, thrust her feet into slippers, and followed Ida across the hall.  Harry lay on the bed, seemingly unconscious.

“I can’t seem to rouse him,” said Ida.  She spoke quite placidly.

Maria went close to her father and put her ear to his mouth.  “He is breathing,” she whispered, tremulously.

Ida smiled.  “Oh yes,” she said.  “I don’t think it anything serious.  It may be indigestion.”

Then Maria turned on her.  “Indigestion!” she whispered.  “Indigestion!  He is dying.  He has been dying a long time, and you haven’t had sense enough to see it.  You haven’t loved him enough to see it.  What made you marry my father if you didn’t love him?”

Ida looked at Maria, and her face seemed to freeze into a smiling mask.