“I know,” said Myra.
Of these proceedings, and of these conflicting emotions, she said nothing to Olivia. Nor did she say anything of subsequent visits to the hospital where Triona still lay unconscious.
In a short time Olivia recovered sufficiently to dispense with the nurse. The doctor prescribed change of air. Olifant once more suggested Medlow, and this time she yielded. But on the afternoon before her departure, while they were packing, she had a strange conversation with Myra.
She held in her hand, uncertain whether to burn it, the last wild letter of Alexis.
“I’m glad he’s gone to Poland,” she said reflectively.
“Why?” asked Myra, not looking up from the trunk by which she was kneeling.
“It’s a man’s work, after all,” said Olivia.
“So’s digging potatoes.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Olivia.