“Who am I, that I should have won the love of such as he?” she asked herself over and over again. “No, he never loved me! He never loved me, while I——” Then she would cover her face with her hands, and wish that she could find relief in the unshed tears that seemed to scorch her heart.
This morning, as she sat by the window, her hands folded listlessly in her lap, thinking and thinking till her head ached, and wishing that she lay in the quiet churchyard beside Jeffrey, Mrs. Jelf came into the room, and, speaking in the subdued voice which is perhaps the most irritating and trying to one in Doris’ condition, said:
“How do you find yourself this morning, miss?”
“I am quite well,” said Doris, rousing herself.
“I am glad to hear it, miss,” responded Mrs. Jelf, gently arranging the pillow which she had insisted upon placing in the armchair. “Do you think you are well enough to see any one this morning?”
“To see any one?” said Doris, with a start, and a sudden thrill of the heart, for a wild, mad hope arose within her breast that it might be Cecil Neville.
“Yes, miss; you are not to unless you quite like, he says, but if you do feel strong enough——”
“He—who?” asked Doris.
“Mr. Spenser Churchill, the gentleman who has been so kind all through your great trouble, miss.”
The color ebbed from Doris’ face, and she sank back.