there, but that had stopped at half-past seven.  It was very seldom that anybody remembered to wind up the kitchen-clock since Marie went.  Her own little watch was at the jeweller’s in New Sanderson for repairs.  She had nothing to depend on except the dining-room clock, which, to her great comfort, so often gained.  She decided that she might wait until ten minutes of nine by that clock before she gave up hope, but the next time she went trembling out to look at it it was only three minutes before nine.  Then it occurred to her that her father might easily have had an errand at one of the stores before coming home.  The post-office would be closed; she had no hope for that, but he might have had some business.  She thought that she might allow until half-past nine before she entirely gave up her father having come on the eight-seventeen train.  It was then that she began running out on the lawn to the entrance of the drive to watch for him.  She put a Roman blanket, which was kept on the divan in the den, over her head, and she continually ran out across the lawn, and stood close to a tree, staring down the road for some sign of her father.  Curiously enough, she was not nearly so terrified out-of-doors as in the house.  The strain of returning to that vacant house was much worse for her than going across the lawn in the lonely night.  She watched and watched, and at last when she returned to the house and looked at the dining-room clock, it was half-past nine, and she completely gave up all hope of her father having come on that train.

A species of stupor, of terror and anxiety, seemed to overcome her.  She sat by the parlor window, still staring out from mere force of habit.  She knew that the next and last train that night was not due until one-thirty, presumably nearly two o’clock.  She knew that there was not the slightest chance of her father’s coming until then, but her mind now centred on the telegram.  It did seem as if there must be a telegram, at least.  All at once a figure appeared in the road and swiftly turned into the drive.  She thought at once that the boy in the drug-store was bringing the telegram; still, she resolved not to open the door until she was sure who it was.  She peered closely from the window, and it was unmistakably the drug-store boy who emerged from the tree shadows and came up on the stoop.  She ran to the door and unfastened it, not waiting for him to ring.  She held out her trembling little hand for the telegram, but he kept his at his side.  He looked at her, grinning half-sympathetically, half-sheepishly.  He was an overgrown boy, perhaps three years younger than she, whom a pretty girl overwhelmed with an enormous self-consciousness and admiration.

“Where is it?” asked Charlotte, impatiently.

“I ’ain’t got nothing’,” said the boy.

“Then why—­”

“I was going home from the store, and I thought I’d jest stop an’ let you know there wa’n’t no telegrams yet.  It wa’n’t much out of my way.”