and was nothing like! the slim, dimpled girl
who had stood on the porch steps and watched her husband drive away
that morning fifteen years ago. She was stout and comely; the auburn
hair was darker and arched away from her face in smooth, shining waves
instead of the old-time curls. Her face was unlined and
fresh-coloured, but no woman could live in subjection to her own
unbending will for so many years and not show it. Nobody, looking at
Theodosia now, would have found it hard to believe that a woman with
such a determined, immoveable face could stick to a course of conduct
in defiance of circumstances.

Wesley Brooke was almost forgotten. People knew, through
correspondents of Greene and Cary, that he had prospered and grown
rich. The curious old story had crystallized into accepted history.

A life may go on without ripple or disturbance for so many years that
it may seem to have settled into a lasting calm; then a sudden wind of
passion may sweep over it and leave behind a wake of tempestuous
waters. Such a time came at last to Theodosia.

One day in August Mrs. Emory Merritt dropped in. Emory Merritt's
sister was Ogden Greene's wife, and the Merritts kept up an occasional
correspondence with her. Hence, Cecilia Merritt always knew what was
to be known about Wesley Brooke, and always told Theodosia because she
had never been expressly forbidden to do so.

Today she looked slightly excited. Secretly she was wondering if the
news she brought would have any effect whatever on Theodosia's
impassive calm.

"Do you know, Dosia, Wesley's real sick? In fact, Phoebe Greene says
they have very poor hopes of him. He was kind of ailing all the
spring, it seems, and about a month ago he was took down with some
kind of slow fever they have out there. Phoebe says they have a hired
nurse from the nearest town and a good doctor, but she reckons he
won't get over it. That fever goes awful hard with a man of his
years."

Cecilia Merritt, who was the fastest talker in Heatherton, had got
this out before she was brought up by a queer sound, half gasp, half
cry, from Theodosia. The latter looked as if someone had struck her a
physical blow.

"Mercy, Dosia, you ain't going to faint! I didn't suppose you'd care.
You never seemed to care."

"Did you say," asked Theodosia thickly, "that Wesley was sick--dying?"

"Well, that's what Phoebe said. She may be mistaken. Dosia Brooke,
you're a queer woman. I never could make you out an