"Shall I send you up anything, grandfather?"
"No, no. If I require anything I will ring for it. Go now, Cora, and leave me to myself."
The girl went away, closing the door behind her. As she descended the stairs she heard the key turned, and knew that her grandfather had so shut out all intruders.
He who had come home hungry and furious as a famished wolf never appeared at the dinner that he had so peremptorily ordered to be served at once, but shut himself up fasting with his dead. If his eyes were now opened to see how much he had made her suffer through his selfishness, cruelty, and despotism all her married life—if his late remorse awoke—if he grieved for her—no one ever knew it. He never gave expression to it.
CHAPTER VIII.
"THE PEACE OF GOD WHICH PASSETH ALL UNDERSTANDING."
In the late dawn of that dark winter day Mr. Clarence came down into the parlor, and found Cora still there, with one gas jet burning low.
"Up so early, my dear child?" he said, as he took her hand and gave her the good morning kiss.
"I have not been in bed," she replied.