Fetzer had formed the habit of returning promptly from church each Sunday evening and after carrying Stephen his late supper, of sitting with him for half an hour. She always told about the sermon, to which she paid the closest attention for this purpose. He seldom went to church, but with this failing she was lenient so long as she could carry religion to him.
When she finished her sermon outline she invariably inquired for Hilda, and then asked for directions for the coming week. She was happiest when he set her tasks, a complete change in the position of the office or library furniture or the planning of a menu for a dinner party of medical men. This fall he gave her few directions; he was satisfied with everything.
"And now I must go away!" mourned Fetzer.
One Sunday evening early in December, she carried him his supper and sat down near him in the only straight chair, a more comfortable seat being according to her code unsuitable. When she entered she saw him fold a letter and put it into his pocket, and recognized the size and shape. Poor Ellen—Fetzer hoped that she did not write as she had looked! Though she understood Ellen's earlier history, it seemed to her, all else aside, that Ellen had lifted her eyes to an unattainable star.
As Stephen praised her sandwiches and tea, and asked her about the preacher and the choir and the attendance, she quite forgot all her worries, forgot poor Ellen, forgot her wicked husband with whom she would soon have to live, forgot everything but her adoration. But she was soon recalled from her dreams. Stephen put aside his cup and began to walk up and down the room.
"Stay and gossip a while, Fetzer. We must plan a nice Christmas for Ellen."
Fetzer looked up startled.
"Is she coming for Christmas?"
"Surely!"
"But she didn't last year!"