der the
strain, and no one could help her. If she left the room or the house, the
consciousness that the helpless creature was lying silently weeping for
lack of the sight of her pursued her like a presence. She saw the piteous
old face on the pillow, and the slow tears trickling down the cheeks, just
as distinctly as if she were sitting by the bed. On the whole, the torture
of staying was less than the torture of being away; and for weeks
together she did not leave the house. Sometimes a dull sense of relief
came to her in the thought that by this strange confinement she was
escaping many things which would have been hard. She rarely saw Stephen
except for a few moments late in the evening. He had ventured into Mrs.
Carr's room once or twice; but his presence seemed to disturb her, the
only presence that had done so. She looked distressed, made agonizing
efforts to speak, and with the hand she could lift made a gesture to repel
him when he drew near the bed. In Mercy's overwrought state, this seemed
to her like an omen. She shuddered, and drew Stephen away.

"O Stephen," she said, "she knows now that I have deceived her about you.
Don't come near her again."

"You never deceived her, darling. Do not distress yourself so," whispered
Stephen. They were standing on the threshold of the room. A slight
rustling in the bed made them turn: Mrs. Carr had half-lifted her head
from the pillow, her lower jaw had fallen to its utmost extent in her
effort to articulate, and she was pointing the forefinger of her left hand
at the door. It was a frightful sight. Even Stephen turned pale, and
sprang hastily away.

"You see," said Mercy, in a ghastly whisper, "sometimes she certainly does
know things; but she never looks like that except at you. You must never
come in again."

"No," said Stephen, almost as horror-stricken as Mercy. "It is very
strange though, for she always used to seem so fond of me."

"She was very childish and patient," said Mercy. "And I think she thought
that you were slowly getting to care about me; but now, wherever her soul
is,--I think it has left her body,--she knows that we deceived her."

Stephen made no answer, but turned to go. The expression of resolved
endurance on his face pierced Mercy to the quick, as it always did. She
sprang after him, and clasped both her hands on his arm. "O Stephen,
darling,--precious, brave, strong darling! do forgive me. I ought to be
killed for even saying one word to g