“If we expect to dream, we must place ourselves in proper condition; so we must bid you good night, Miss Evans,” said Mr. Temple, rising.
“I did not expect my words to hasten your departure, Mr. Temple. Can you not stay longer?”
“Not another moment,” he answered, taking his wife's bonnet and shawl, which she had brought from the hall, and putting them upon her. “I expect Florence has gone with our good friends. Come and see us, Miss Evans, soon. Good night; I will speak for both. Florence has gone away in spirit.”
At this Florence roused, and kissed Miss Evans good night. She had no words. She was very weary, and felt glad to know that her home was not far off, only a pleasant walk, for Hugh would not consent that there should be a great distance between them, so long as the freedom to build where they chose was allowed.
Florence was indeed weary; neither the morrow, nor the deep love and devotion of her husband brought her strength back, but she pined day by day.
Miss Evans carried flowers, Dawn's favorites, to her each day, with the hope that she would revive. On the contrary, they only served to keep the spell of languor upon her. At last her husband grew alarmed, and one evening after she had retired to rest, earlier than usual, he sought Miss Evans, who, hearing his step on the carriage path, knew he was alone, and expected to be summoned to his wife.
“How is Florence, to-day?” she inquired, as soon he was seated.
“The same languor oppresses her, and I have come to speak with you about it. Can you enlighten me in regard to her state? Some strange fears have crept into my mind, I suppose, because my nerves are weak, in my anxiety for her.” Here he paused, as though he dared not entertain the thought, much less make it known to another.
In an instant she read his fears.
“I think I understand the cause of your wife's languor, for, although not an educated physician, I lay some claim to a natural perception of the causes of physical and mental ills.”