had been unkind, cruel,
thoughtless, inconsiderate of her comfort and happiness. Furthermore he
_did not_ love her as well as she did him or he never, never could have
done it! She would let him see, when he came, just how hurt and grieved
she was--and how disappointed, too.

Billy was walking the floor now, back and forth, back and forth.

Half-past ten came, then eleven. As the eleven long strokes reverberated
through the silent house Billy drew in her breath and held it suspended.
A new look came to her eyes. A growing terror crept into them and
culminated in a frightened stare at the clock.

Billy ran then to the great outer door and pulled it open. A cold wind
stung her face, and caused her to shut the door quickly. Back and forth
she began to pace the floor again; but in five minutes she had run to
the door once more. This time she wore a heavy coat of Bertram's which
she caught up as she passed the hall-rack.

Out on to the broad top step Billy hurried, and peered down the street.
As far as she could see not a person was in sight. Across the street in
the Public Garden the wind stirred the gray tree-branches and set them
to casting weird shadows on the bare, frozen ground. A warning something
behind her sent Billy scurrying into the house just in time to prevent
the heavy door's closing and shutting her out, keyless, in the cold.

Half-past eleven came, and again Billy ran to the door. This time she
put the floor-mat against the casing so that the door could not close.
Once more she peered wildly up and down the street, and across into the
deserted, wind-swept Garden.

There was only terror now in Billy's face. The anger was all gone. In
Billy's mind there was not a shadow of doubt--something had happened to
Bertram.

Bertram was ill--hurt--dead! And he was so good, so kind, so noble; such
a dear, dear husband! If only she could see him once. If only she could
ask his forgiveness for those wicked, unkind, accusing thoughts. If only
she could tell him again that she did love him. If only--

Far down the street a step rang sharply on the frosty air. A masculine
figure was hurrying toward the house. Retreating well into the shadow
of the doorway, Billy watched it, her heart pounding against her side
in great suffocating throbs. Nearer and nearer strode the approaching
figure until Billy had almost sprung to meet it with a glad cry--almost,
but not quite; for the figure neither turned nor paused, but marched