Half a dozen times, although the November afternoon was raw and chilly, with the wind fresh from the sea and the sky dull, she was out on the front porch without shawl or hat, looking down the path, covered now with dead leaves, and scanning closely every team that passed the gate, only to return again to her place by the fire, more impatient than ever.

Meg’s quick ear first caught the grating of the wheels.  Jane followed him with a cry of joyous expectation, and flew to the door to meet the stage, which for some reason—­why, she could not tell—­had stopped for a moment outside the gate, dropping only one passenger, and that one the nurse.

“And Lucy did not come, Martha!” Jane exclaimed, with almost a sob in her voice.  She had reached her side now, followed by Meg, who was springing straight at the nurse in the joy of his welcome.

The old woman glanced back at the stage, as if afraid of being overheard, and muttered under her breath: 

“No, she couldn’t come.”

“Oh, I am so disappointed!  Why not?”

Martha did not answer.  She seemed to have lost her breath.  Jane put her arm about her and led her up the path.  Once she stumbled, her step was so unsteady, and she would have fallen but for Jane’s assistance.

The two had now reached the hand-railing of the porch.  Here Martha’s trembling foot began to feel about for the step.  Jane caught her in her arms.

“You’re ill, Martha!” she cried in alarm.  “Give me the bag.  What’s the matter?”

Again Martha did not answer.

“Tell me what it is.”

“Upstairs!  Upstairs!” Martha gasped in reply. 
Quick!”

“What has happened?”

“Not here; upstairs.”

They climbed the staircase together, Jane half carrying the fainting woman, her mind in a whirl.

“Where were you taken ill?  Why did you try to come home?  Why didn’t Lucy come with you?”

They had reached the door of Jane’s bedroom
now, Martha clinging to her arm.

Once inside, the nurse leaned panting against the door, put her bands to her face as if she would shut out some dreadful spectre, and sank slowly to the floor.

“It is not me,” she moaned, wringing her hands, “not me—­not—­”

“Who?”

“Oh, I can’t say it!”

“Lucy?”

“Yes”

“Not ill?”

“No; worse!”

“Oh, Martha!  Not dead?”

“O God, I wish she were!”

An hour passed—­an hour of agony, of humiliation and despair.

Again the door opened and Jane stepped out—­ slowly, as if in pain, her lips tight drawn, her face ghastly white, the thin cheeks sunken into deeper hollows, the eyes burning.  Only the mouth preserved its lines, but firmer, more rigid, more severe, as if tightened by the strength of some great resolve.  In her hand she held a letter.

Martha lay on the bed, her face to the wall, her head still in her palms.  She had ceased sobbing and was quite still, as if exhausted.