"It is a cold, nasty night," remarked Mr. Lake, giving no further thought to the matter, or supposing that there was cause to give it. "The tea is ready, I think; that will warm you."
He took one of the candles off the table and went to his room to wash his hands. Anna Chester laid down her work and approached Clara.
"Dear Mrs. Lake, something is troubling you," she said in her gentle manner, as her sweet eyes glanced deprecatingly at that care-betraying face. "Can I do anything for you--or get you anything? Shall I bring you some tea up here?"
"Hush, Anna! No, it is nothing--only that I am cold. Thank you all the same."
"You are looking so pale. Pale and sad."
"I don't think I have been very well lately, Anna. Let me be quiet, my dear, for a few minutes, will you? my head aches."
Anna Chester, with the delicacy innate in her, quitted the room, setting things a little straight on the work-table in passing it. When Mr. Lake came back, Clara was sitting just as he had left her. Putting down the candle, he came close up, making some trifling remark.
She would have given the world to be able to say a word to him; to ask whether she was to be second in his heart; second to that woman; but she simply dared not. Her agitation would have become unbearable, and ended in an hysterical scene.
"Are you not coming to tea, Clara?"
"Presently."