"This is no place for you, Mrs. Wylie; my wife sent me for you. You can do no good here; you will learn what there is to learn quicker at home—one can't believe a word they say."
Her agony was too great for words or tears. She had gone through so much all those years, and now happiness had seemed so near, she had believed it might even yet be in store for her since Mrs. Somerset had spoken to her on the subject, and now? . . . She let herself be led into the house, and when Mrs. Somerset ran to meet her and clasp her in her arms, it was as if she grasped a statue, so cold and lifeless was Norah.
"She is stunned," the major said; "she is exhausted."
Mechanically she let herself be covered up and put on the sofa, her feet chafed by kind hands—it gave a vague sense of comfort, though all the time she felt as if it were being done to some one else.
And yet had Norah only known, grief would have been turned into thanksgiving. Her husband was not dead.
The weary night came to an end at last, as such nights do. Several times Mrs. Somerset had crept in. They had been unable to gather any reliable news about the Minerva's passengers. The ship had gone down, but whether the people had been saved they had been unable as yet to ascertain.
A glorious sunrise succeeded a night of storm and terror, and its crimson beams came in on Norah. Hastily rising, and throwing on her hat and jacket she ran out into the morning freshness longing to feel the cool air.
She only wanted to get away from herself.
She climbed the steep ascent up the "Rock," past the governor's house, then stood and gazed at this wonderful scene.
And she stood thus, wrapped up in sad thoughts and anticipations of evil, a great, great joy lay very near her.