“What is the matter, Queenie? Are you not well?” exclaimed Jess, with earnest solicitude. “Why, your hands are like ice; even your lips are cold.”
“I have a headache. If you don’t mind, I’d rather be alone for a little while,” she replied, abruptly.
Without another word Jess turned slowly and quitted the boudoir, wondering greatly at the change of manner of her new-found friend, and wondering if she had possibly done anything to offend her.
But upon reaching her own room Jess forgot very quickly all about Queenie and her grievance, in giving herself up to her delicious daydreams of the future that awaited her with the reappearance of her handsome, dignified husband.
“Oh, how I love him,” the girl murmured, resting her dimpled cheek against her pink palms. “It seems as though I had only just commenced to live to-day. He ought to be here soon now. He said he would come on the morrow, and then——”
Her thoughts were rudely interrupted by the entrance of Queenie, who came direct to the window where she sat, and laid a white hand lightly on the girl’s arm.
“You are come to tell that he—my husband—is here!” cried Jess, tremulously, her face flushing with unconcealed delight.
Queenie bent over and raised the dimpled chin in her hand, looking searchingly down into the fair, happy young face, and then she answered, slowly:
“I wish to Heaven I could tell you so, my poor dear.”
“Why, what can you mean, Queenie?” cried Jess, springing to her feet, a premonition of coming evil rushing over her heart.