'She will not stay?'
'Not of her own accord.'
'You have told her?'
'Oh no; not till to-morrow.'
'She ought to stay, certainly,' said the father. There had been very little intercourse between the mother and daughter during the afternoon, and while the three were sitting together, nothing was said about the morrow. The evening would have seemed to be very sad and very silent, had they not all three been used to so many silent evenings in that room. Hester, during her wedding tour and the few weeks of her happiness at Folking, before the trouble had come, had felt a new life and almost an ecstasy of joy in the thorough liveliness of her husband. But the days of her old home were not so long ago that its old manners should seem strange to her. She therefore sat out the hours patiently, stitching some baby's ornament, till her mother told her that the time for prayer had come. After worship her father called her out into the hall as he went up to his room. 'Hester,' he said, 'it is not right that you should leave us to-morrow.'
'I must, papa.'
'I tell you that it is not right. You have a home in which everybody will respect you. For the present you should remain here.'
'I cannot, papa. He told me to go back to-morrow. I would not disobey him now,—not now,—were it ever so.' Then the old man paused as though he were going on with the argument, but finding that he had said all that he had to say, he slowly made his way upstairs.
'Good-night, mamma,' said Hester, returning only to the door of the sitting-room.
'Good-night, my love.' As the words were spoken they both felt that there was something wrong,—much that was wrong. 'I do not think they will do that,' said Hester to herself, as she went up the stairs to her chamber.