By the next morning, she had realized all that the verdict meant; she had had time even to grow used to it. The first joy had spent itself, the inevitable reaction was setting in.
"Life isn't everything," she thought, and stared before her with knit brows. The fire—it was a long time since she had sat beside one—gave out a cheerful glow, the little drawing-room wore a festive air and was bright with flowers that had been sent to her. A feeling of physical ease and contentment, of relief in the mere change of scene, stole over her wearied senses. But still it did not suffice; she struggled indeed against it.
She took up and re-read a letter which had been left for her a little while before, and had caused her, in her state of exhaustion, something of a nervous shock.
"They have just told me," it said, "that you are acquitted. As for me, I am very ill. They say I can't live much longer. That's why I ask if you will come and see me at once. There are some things I'd like to tell you, and if you don't come quickly it may be too late."
AMANDA."
The address was that of a hospital.
"I didn't know," Elizabeth said, "that Amanda was so ill."
Her aunts, who were hovering about the room, devouring their recovered treasure with tender eyes, looked surprised at her introduction of an irrelevant subject.