Too well she understood what it all meant, and there was but one way to account for the sudden change in the atmosphere which surrounded her.
Mrs. Farnum, the only one in the house who could possibly know anything regarding her history, must have given some hint of her apparently questionable position.
But there was no redress, for she would not humiliate herself enough to ask an explanation; so she could only submit in silence, and bear it with what fortitude she could summon to her aid, while she was waiting to hear from her husband.
But she endured agonies during the time, and the days dragged, oh, so heavily by.
She remained closely in her own rooms, seeing no one save the servants and her own nurse, and devoting herself to the care of her little one.
At last the day that she had set for a letter to come arrived, and she grew feverish, almost hysterical while waiting for the mail to be delivered.
She heard the clerk going his rounds; he stopped at Mrs. Farnum's door to leave something, and then came on toward her door. Her heart stood still as he approached. He passed by—there was nothing for her, and her heart was almost broken.
She sent the nurse down to the office to ask if there was not some mistake—if Mrs. Heath's mail had not been overlooked.
"No, there are no letters for Mrs. Heath," the man answered, with a peculiar emphasis on the name, and an insolent laugh, that made the woman very angry.
When she related the circumstance to Virgie, she threw up her arms, with a gesture of despair, and cried out: