"Pshaw," she said to herself as she turned away, "I believe I am losing my senses."
The next two days at school she barely nodded to him each day. "At least he shall not see it," she thought.
When the next Sunday eve came she dressed herself with unusual care, and as it was a cold night she piled the parlor fireplace full of wood and started it early.
Then she sat down to wait. The time of his usual coming passed, but there was no knock at the door. The hall clock with slow and solemn tick marked one hour of waiting, and still he did not come. She arose and added fuel to the fire, and then, taking a book, tried to read. It was of no use, she could not fix her mind upon anything, and she laid the book down and, crossing the room, looked out of the window. How cheerless the snowclad dooryard, and what a cold glitter the stars seemed to have! She sat down again and watched the fire. The tall clock just outside the parlor door seemed to say: "Never—never—never!"
She arose and shut the door, for every one of those slow and solemn beats was like a blow upon her aching heart. Then she seated herself again by the dying fire, and as she gazed at the fading embers a little realization of what woman's love and woman's waiting means came to her. When the room had grown chill, she lighted her lamp and retired to her chamber.
"I have never realized it before," she said, as she looked at the sad, sweet face in the mirror. And that night it was long ere slumber came to her pillow.