During her mother’s temporary aberration, Edith never left her room except for a few minutes at a time.  Not a word or sentence escaped her notice.  But she waited and listened in vain for anything more.  The talking paroxysm was over.  A stupor of mind and body followed.  Out of this a slow recovery came, but it did not progress to a full convalescence.  Mrs. Dinneford went forth from her sick-chamber weak and nervous, starting at sudden noises, and betraying a perpetual uneasiness and suspense.  Edith was continually on the alert, watching every look and word and act with untiring scrutiny.  Mrs. Dinneford soon became aware of this.  Guilt made her wary, and danger inspired prudence.  Edith’s whole manner had changed.  Why? was her natural query.  Had she been wandering in her mind?  Had she given any clue to the dark secrets she was hiding?  Keen observation became mutual.  Mother and daughter watched each other with a suspicion that never slept.

It was over a month from the time Freeling disappeared before Mrs. Dinneford was strong enough to go out, except in her carriage.  In every case where she had ridden out, Edith had gone with her.

“If you don’t care about riding, it’s no matter,” the mother would say, when she saw Edith getting ready.  “I can go alone.  I feel quite well and strong.”

But Edith always had some reason for going against which her mother could urge no objections.  So she kept her as closely under observation as possible.  One day, on returning from a ride, as the carriage passed into the block where they lived, she saw a woman standing on the step in front of their residence.  She had pulled the bell, and was waiting for a servant to answer it.

“There is some one at our door,” said Edith.

Mrs. Dinneford leaned across her daughter, and then drew back quickly, saying,

“It’s Mrs. Barker.  Tell Henry to drive past.  I don’t want to see visitors, and particularly not Mrs. Barker.”

She spoke hurriedly, and with ill-concealed agitation.  Edith kept her eyes on the woman, and saw her go in, but did not tell the driver to keep on past the house.  It was not Mrs. Barker.  She knew that very well.  In the next moment their carriage drew up at the door.

“Go on, Henry!” cried Mrs. Dinneford, leaning past her daughter, and speaking through the window that was open on that side.  “Drive down to Loring’s.”

“Not till I get out, Henry,” said Edith, pushing open the door and stepping to the pavement.  Then with a quick movement she shut the door and ran across the pavement, calling back to the driver as she did so,

“Take mother to Loring’s.”

“Stop, Henry!” cried Mrs. Dinneford, and with an alertness that was surprising sprung from the carriage, and was on the steps of their house before Edith’s violent ring had brought a servant to the door.  They passed in, Edith holding her place just in advance.

“I will see Mrs. Barker,” said Mrs. Dinneford, trying to keep out of her voice the fear and agitation from which she was suffering.  “You can go up to your room.”