Still she could not sleep. She reviewed Ellen's residence in the house. This last summer she had watched eagerly for the mail. Fetzer had believed that the letters which she looked for were from some college acquaintance; she realized now that they were Stephen's letters.
"He's not old." Fetzer was about Stephen's age. "And he's very good-looking."
Again she composed herself to sleep.
"He's perhaps a little too kind to people," she said after another half-hour, in her nearest approach to disapproval of her master.
In the middle of the night she began to think of her own troubles. The Lord had not answered her prayer; Jim was not converted, neither was he translated. His term ended on the first of February, and by that time she expected to await him in the Pennsylvania German village where they had been born and married and where everybody knew their history and his shame. She was not afraid; she believed that if he could be kept from drink and entertained he would be endurable, at least he would not be dangerous. If he did not do well—it was all the same, she was bound to him. It was as yet impossible for her to imagine herself in the little house with him, but she had no other thought than to go. She would still have Christmas, and then would come the inevitable misery. To her Duty was the "stern daughter of the Voice of God," indeed.
After Ellen had gone she began to put the house in order for her own departure, spending hours over each room, making lists in neat little books, and packing carefully Hilda's belongings so that if Stephen decided to give them away they could be shipped without repacking.
"If I get everything done, I'll then have a free Christmas."
Sometimes she walked from room to room adoring and sometimes for an hour she forgot that she was to go away. Then, as if in punishment for her forgetfulness, she found her husband walking with her or sitting close beside her at the table and on the doorstep in the evenings, his arm, his arm—Fetzer needed her prayers for herself!
Through the autumn Stephen was constantly occupied and constantly cheerful. He attended his patients with promises of improvement which did much to bring about improvement. Miss MacVane stood between him and overwork, and Miss Knowlton took upon herself a heavier burden than before. The period was one of supreme happiness for both women; they lived in a dream, each perfectly aware of her own state of mind and of that of her companion. Miss Knowlton, at least, was relieved by Ellen's absence; Ellen was to her like a fifth wheel. Stephen often sat on the edge of Miss MacVane's desk when the day's work was done and discussed cases with them. "We've had a good day, haven't we?" he would say, and Miss MacVane and Miss Knowlton would scarcely be able to speak for satisfaction. They both believed that it was unlimited opportunity to work and freedom from anxiety about Hilda's behavior which made him happy.