She called all her will to her aid; she drank a full glass of wine, and soon felt much stronger, but oh! still so wretched and heart-sick.
She arose after awhile and began to move about the room, although both Mr. Rosevelt and Mrs. Blunt insisted that she was not able—that she ought to be still and rest all day.
But that paper was still lying upon the floor, with that marked paragraph staring her in the face.
She must get it and hide it, or they would learn all her trouble, and know how weak and foolish she was—how lacking in pride and self-respect to grieve thus after another woman’s husband; and her lips curled with scorn at her own folly, while all the time the pain at her heart was growing more bitter.
Very quietly she gathered up her letters and papers, which had slipped to the floor when she fell.
With trembling fingers she folded that fatal sheet into the smallest compass, and tucked it slyly into her pocket; then laying the others on the table beside Mr. Rosevelt, she said:
“I do not think I will read any more now, Uncle Jacob; but perhaps you would like to look over these home papers. I will go and lie down for a little while, and try to sleep off my weakness.”
He took her white face between his hands and looked anxiously into her eyes.
“My dear, my dear,” he said, earnestly, “I hope you are not going to be sick; what should I do without you? You must take care of yourself for my sake, as well as for your own, my Star.”
She smiled, and, taking one of the hands that held her face, touched her lips to it.