"Yes," she answered, in a hushed voice.
"I was afraid so," he said. "You have been alone so long—I thought of it almost every hour of the day; you are not used to being alone. Perhaps it was a mistake. Why do you tremble so?"
"I don't know," she answered.
"My poor child!" he said. "My poor child!" And then there was a pause which seemed to hold a lifetime of utter silence.
It was Bertha who ended it. She stirred a little, and then lifted her face. She looked as he remembered her looking when he had first known her, only that she was paler, and there was a wearied softness in her eyes. She made no attempt at hiding the traces of tears in them, and she spoke as simply as a child.
"I thought it was the doctor, when I heard the horse's feet," she said; "and I was afraid the dogs would bark and waken Janey. She has just fallen asleep, and she has slept so little. She has been very ill."
"You have not slept," he said.
"No," she replied. "This is the first time I have left her."
He took her hand and drew it gently through his arm.