Here was something in her life that was her own, a secret, a hope, and yet a tremulous anticipation to be guarded almost from herself.  It colored everything; it was always, whatever she was doing or saying, present, like an air that one unconsciously hums for days after it has caught his fancy.  Blessed be the capacity of being fond and foolish!  If that letter was under her pillow at night, if this new revelation was last in her thought as she fell asleep, if it mingled with the song of the birds in the spring morning, as some great good pervading the world, is there anything distinguishing in such an experience that it should be dwelt on?  And if there were questionings and little panics of doubt, did not these moments also reveal Margaret to herself more certainly than the hours of happy dreaming?

Questionings no doubt there were, and, later, serious questionings; for habit is almost as strong as love, and the old ways of life and of thought will reassert themselves in a thoughtful mind, and reason will insist on analyzing passion and even hope.

Gradually the home life and every-day interests began to assume their natural aspect and proportions.  It was so sweet and sane, this home life, interesting and not feverish.  There was time for reading, time for turning over things in the mind, time for those interchanges of feeling and of ideas, by the fireside; she was not required to be always on dress parade, in mind or person, always keyed up to make an impression or receive one; how much wider and sounder was Morgan’s view of the world, allowing for his kindly cynicism, than that prevalent in the talk where she had lately been!  How sincere and hearty and free ran the personal currents in this little neighborhood!  In the very fact that the daily love and affection for her and interest in her were taken for granted she realized the difference between her position here and that among newer friends who showed more open admiration.

Little by little there was a readjustment.  In comparison, the city life, with its intensity of action and feeling, began to appear distant, not so real, mixed, turbid, even frivolous.  And was Henderson a vanishing part of this pageant?  Was his figure less distinct as the days went by?  It could not be affirmed.  Love is such a little juggler, and likes, now and again, to pretend to be so reasonable and judicious.  There were no more letters.  If there had been a letter now and then, on any excuse, the nexus would have been more distinct:  nothing feeds the flame exactly like a letter; it has intention, personality, secrecy.  And the little excitement of it grows.  Once a week gets to be twice a week, three times, four times, and then daily.  And then a day without a letter is such a blank, and so full of fear!  What can have happened?  Is he ill?  Has he changed?  The opium habit is nothing to the letter habit-between lovers.  Not that Margaret expected a letter.  Indeed, reason told her that it had not gone so far as that.  But she should see him.  She felt sure of that.  And the thought filled all the vacant places in her imagination of the future.