"Haven't I given you my word?" he said. "Are you afraid that I shall not be tender enough to him? Don't you comprehend that no matter how much I may hate him myself, his being your husband protects him perfectly, because, so long as you persist in continuing so subservient, he could visit anything else upon you?"
She went out without reply.
He sank into the chair she had left vacant to rest for a moment or two; he was desperately tired.
When he came back to the room at eleven, she was already there. It was a dark day, with the same New-England-feeling wind blowing over river and land; there had been spurts of rain, and he was wet. "Why have you no fire?" he asked.
"It did not seem cold enough."
"It's not cold, but it's dreary. I don't believe you have slept at all?" he continued, looking at her. Opening the door, he called Rose, and told her to light the fire. When the old woman had finished her task—it was but a touch, and again the magic wood was filling the room with its gay light and faint sweet odor of the pine—he repeated his question. "I don't believe you have slept at all?"
"How could I sleep!"
He sat down before the fire. "You are wet. And you must be very tired," she went on.
"I am glad you have thought of it—I like sympathy. Yes, I am tired; but the room is cheery now. Let us breakfast in here?"
"You have found no trace?" Her nervousness showed itself in her tone.