better dish up, then. He ain't coming." He
stood up, walked to the door, and called out, in the pitch necessary to
penetrate the old woman's tympanum: "Get along with the supper, Verena."

Charity was trembling with apprehension. Something had happened--she was
sure of it now--and Mr. Royall knew what it was. But not for the world
would she have gratified him by showing her anxiety. She took her usual
place, and he seated himself opposite, and poured out a strong cup of
tea before passing her the tea-pot. Verena brought some scrambled eggs,
and he piled his plate with them. "Ain't you going to take any?" he
asked. Charity roused herself and began to eat.

The tone with which Mr. Royall had said "He's not coming" seemed to her
full of an ominous satisfaction. She saw that he had suddenly begun to
hate Lucius Harney, and guessed herself to be the cause of this change
of feeling. But she had no means of finding out whether some act of
hostility on his part had made the young man stay away, or whether he
simply wished to avoid seeing her again after their drive back from the
brown house. She ate her supper with a studied show of indifference, but
she knew that Mr. Royall was watching her and that her agitation did not
escape him.

After supper she went up to her room. She heard Mr. Royall cross the
passage, and presently the sounds below her window showed that he
had returned to the porch. She seated herself on her bed and began to
struggle against the desire to go down and ask him what had happened.
"I'd rather die than do it," she muttered to herself. With a word he
could have relieved her uncertainty: but never would she gratify him by
saying it.

She rose and leaned out of the window. The twilight had deepened into
night, and she watched the frail curve of the young moon dropping to
the edge of the hills. Through the darkness she saw one or two figures
moving down the road; but the evening was too cold for loitering, and
presently the strollers disappeared. Lamps were beginning to show here
and there in the windows. A bar of light brought out the whiteness of a
clump of lilies in the Hawes's yard: and farther down the street Carrick
Fry's Rochester lamp cast its bold illumination on the rustic flower-tub
in the middle of his grass-plot.

For a long time she continued to lean in the window. But a fever of
unrest consumed her, and finally she went downstairs, took her hat
from its hook, and swung out of the house. Mr