Of the scene that followed, and of the late, badly-cooked dinner to which my husband was introduced an hour afterwards, I will not trust myself to write.  I was not, of course, in a very agreeable humor; and the record of what I said and did, and of how I looked, would be in no way flattering to my own good opinion of myself, nor prove particularly edifying to the reader.

I shall never forget Anna’s new variety of “whale-barry,” nor the “lots o’ things” she deposited on my bed.  She lived with me just seven days, and then made way for another a little more tolerable than herself.

CHAPTER XX.

A CURE FOR LOW SPIRITS.

FROM some cause, real or imaginary, I felt low spirited.  There was a cloud upon my feelings, and I could not smile as usual, nor speak in a tone of cheerfulness.  As a natural result, the light of my countenance being gone, all things around me were in a shadow.  My husband was sober, and had but little to say; the children would look strangely at me when I answered their questions or spoke to them for any purpose, and the domestics moved about in a quiet manner, and when they addressed me, did so in a tone more subdued than usual.

This reaction upon my state, only made darker the clouds that veiled my spirits.  I was conscious of this, and was conscious that the original cause of depression was entirely inadequate, in itself, to produce the result which had followed.  Under this feeling, I made an effort to rally myself, but in vain—­and sank lower from the struggle to rise above the gloom that overshadowed me.

When my husband came home at dinner time, I tried to meet him with a smile; but I felt that the light upon my countenance was feeble, and of brief duration.  He looked at me earnestly, and in his kind and gentle way, enquired if I felt no better, affecting to believe that my ailment was one of the body instead of the mind.  But I scarcely answered him, and I could see that he felt hurt.  How, much more wretched did I become at this?  Could I have then retired to my chamber, and alone given my heart full vent in a passion of tears, I might have obtained relief to my feelings.  But I could not do this.

While I sat at the table forcing a little food into my mouth for appearance sake, my husband said: 

“You remember the fine lad who has been with me for some time?”

I nodded my head, but the question did not awaken in my mind the least interest.

“He has not made his appearance for several days; and I learned this morning, on sending to the house of his mother, that he is very ill.”

“Ah!” was my indifferent response.  Had I spoken, what was in my mind, I would have said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t help it.”  I did not at the moment feel the smallest interest in the lad.

“Yes,” added my husband, “and the person who called to let me know about it, expressed his fears that Edward would not get up again.”