"My birthday," she said to herself, "this long, lonesome, desolate day. Desolate as my lost life, as my dead heart. Only two-and twenty, and all that makes life worth having, gone already."
Again she walked to the window. Far away, and pale and dim through the drifting snow, she could see the low-lying sky.
"Not all!" was the better thought that came to her in her bitterness—"not all, but oh! how far away the land of rest looks!"
She leaned against the window, as she had leaned against the mantel, and took from her bosom the locket she always wore.
"This day twelvemonth he gave me this—his birthday gift. Oh, my darling! My husband! where in all the wide world are you this stormy night?"
There was a rap at the door. She thrust the locket again in her bosom, choked back the hysterical passion of tears rising in her heart, crossed the room, and opened the door. Her visitor was Doctor Danton.
"I thought I should find you here," he said, entering.
"How are you to-day, Miss Darling? Not very well, as your face plainly testifies; give me your hand—cold as ice! My dear child, what is the trouble now?"
At the kindness of his tone she broke down suddenly. She had been alone so long brooding in solitude over her troubles, that she had grown hysterical. It wanted but that kindly voice and look to open the closed flood-gates of her heart. She covered her face with her hands, and broke out into a passionate fit of crying.
Doctor Frank led her gently to a seat, and stood leaning against the chimney, looking into the dying fire, and not speaking. The hysterics would pass, he knew, if she were let alone; and when the sobbing grew less violent, he spoke.