When my husband came home at dinner time, I tried to meet him with a smile; but I felt that the light upon my countenance was feeble, and of brief duration. He looked at me earnestly, and, in his kind and gentle way, inquired if I felt no better, affecting to believe that my ailment was one of the body instead of the mind. But I scarcely answered him, and I could see that he felt hurt. How much more wretched did I become at this. Could I have then retired to my chamber, and, alone, give my full heart vent in a passion of tears, I might have obtained relief to my feelings. But, I could not do this.
While I sat at the table, forcing a little food into my mouth for appearance sake, my husband said—
"You remember the fine lad who has been for some time in our store?"
I nodded my head, but the question did not awaken in my mind the slightest interest.
"He has not made his appearance for several days; and I learned this morning, on sending to the house of his mother, that he was very ill."
"Ah!" was my indifferent response. Had I spoken what was in my mind, I would have said—"I'm sorry, but I can't help it." I did not, at the moment, feel the smallest interest in the lad.
"Yes," added my husband, "and the person who called to let me know about it, expressed his fears that Edward would not get up again."
"What ails him?" I inquired.
"I did not clearly understand. But he has fever of some kind. You remember his mother very well?"
"Oh, yes. You know she has worked for me. Edward is her only child,
I believe."