About an hour later, and just as twilight had given place to darkness, Mrs. Loring who was sitting with her daughters, lifted her eyes from the work in her hands, and leaned her head in a listening attitude.  The door bell had rung, and a servant was moving along the passage.  A moment of suspense, and then light steps were heard and the rustling of a woman’s garments.

“Jessie!” exclaimed Mrs. Loring, as Mrs. Dexter entered the sitting-room.”  She was enveloped in a warm cloak, with a hood drawn over her head.  As she pushed the latter from her partly hidden face, her aunt saw a wildness about her eyes, that suggested, in connection with this unheralded visit of the feeble invalid, the idea of mental derangement.  Starting forward, and almost encircling her with her arms, she said—­

“My dear child! what is the meaning of this visit?  Where is Mr. Dexter?  Did he come with you?”

“I am cold,” she answered, with a shiver.  “The air is piercing.”  And she turned towards the grate, spreading her hands to the genial warmth.

“Did Mr. Dexter come with you?” Mrs. Loring repeated the question.

“No; I came alone,” was the quietly spoken answer.

“You did not walk?”

“Yes.”

“Why, Jessie!  You imprudent child!  Does Mr. Dexter know of this?”

There was no reply to this question.

“Aunt Phoebe,” said Mrs. Dexter, turning from the fire, “can I see you alone?”

“Certainly, dear,” and placing an arm around her, Mrs. Loring went with her niece from the room.

“You have frightened me, child,” said the aunt, as soon as they were alone.  “What has happened?  Why have you come at this untimely hour, and with such an imprudent exposure of your health?”

“I have come home, Aunt Phoebe!” Mrs. Dexter stood and looked steadily into the face of her aunt.

“Home, Jessie?” Mrs. Loring was bewildered.

“I have no other home in the wide world, Aunt Phoebe.”  The sadness of Jessie’s low, steady voice, went deep down into the worldly heart of Mrs. Loring.

“Child! child!  What do you mean?” exclaimed the astonished woman.

“Simply, that I have come back to you again—­to die, I trust, and that right early!”

“Where is Mr. Dexter?  What has happened?  Oh, Jessie! speak plainly!” said Mrs. Loring, much agitated.

“I have left Mr. Dexter, Aunt Phoebe.”  She yet spoke in a calm voice.  “And shall not return to him.  If you will let me have that little chamber again, which I used to call my own, I will bless you for the sanctuary, and hide myself in it from the world.  I do not think I shall burden you a long time, Aunt Phoebe.  I am passing through conflicts and enduring pains that are too severe for me.  Feeble nature is fast giving way.  The time will not be long, dear aunt!”

“Sit down, child!  There!  Sit down.”  And Mrs. Loring led her niece to a chair.  “This is a serious business, Jessie,” she added, in a troubled voice.  “I am bewildered by your strange language.  What does it mean?  Speak to me plainly.  I am afraid you are dreaming.”