At four o’clock the doctor came back, and at five the nurse pleasantly took possession of the sick room.  She was a sensible New England woman, who cooked potatoes in an amazing way for Teddy’s supper, and taught Martie a new solitaire in the still watches of the night.  Martie was anxious to make her comfortable; she must lie down; and she must be sure to get out into the fresh air to-morrow afternoon.

But Miss Swann did not leave her case the next day, a Sunday, and Martie, awed and silent, spent the day beside the bed.  Wallace died at five o’clock.

He wandered in a light fever that morning, and at two o’clock fell into the stupor that was not to end in this world.  But Martie had, to treasure, the memory of the early morning when she slipped quietly into the room that was orderly, dimly lighted, and odorous of drugs now.  He was awake then, his eyes found her, and he smiled as she knelt beside him.

“Better?” she said softly.

The big head nodded almost imperceptibly.  He moistened his lips.

“I’m all right,” he said voicelessly.  “Bad—­bad cold!”

He shut his eyes, and with them shut, added in a whisper:  “Sweet, sweet woman, Martie!  Remember that day—­in Pittsville—­when you had on—­your brother’s—­coat?  Mabel—­and old Jesse—!”

Heavenly tears rushed to her eyes; she felt the yielding of her frozen heart.  She caught his hand to her lips, bowing her face over it.

“Ah, Wallace dear!  We were happy then!  We’ll go back—­back to that time—­and we’ll start fresh!”

A long silence.  Then he opened his eyes, found her, with a start, as if he had not been quite sure what those opening eyes would see, and smiled sleepily.

“I’ll make it—­up to you, Martie!” he said heavily She had her arms about him as he sank into unnatural sleep.  At eight, whispering in the kitchen with John, who had come for Teddy, she said that Wallie was better; and busy with coffee and toast for Miss Swann, she began to plan for Costa Rica.  Beaten, crushed, purified by fire, healed by tears, she was ready for life again.

But that was not to be.  Wallace was dead, and those who gathered about Martie wondered that she wept for her husband more than for her child.

Wept for the wasted life, perhaps, and for the needless suffering and sorrow.  But even in the first hours of her widowhood Martie’s heart knew a deep and passionate relief.  Vague and menacing as was the future, stretching before her, she knew that she would never wish Wallace back.

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

There were times when Martie found it difficult to believe that she had ever been away from Monroe at all; evenings, when she and Lydia sat talking in the shabby sitting room of the old house; or mornings when she fed the chickens in the soft fog under the willow trees of the yard.  Len and Sally were married and gone, dear Ma was gone, and Belle had married, too; a tall gaunt woman called Pauline was in her place.