consequent slight
estrangement from me--(to me a very bitter thing)--Frank's continued
silence as regards Barbara--all these are swallowed up in gladness.

When _he_ is back, all will come right. Is it any wonder that they have
gone wrong, while _I_ only was at the helm? My good news arrived only
this morning, and yet, a hundred times in the short space that has
elapsed since then, I have rehearsed the manner of our meeting, have
practised calling him "Roger," with familiar ease, have fixed upon my
gown and the manner of my coiffure, and have wearied Barbara with
solicitous queries, as to whether she thinks that I have grown
perceptibly plainer in the last seven months, whether she does not think
one side of my face better looking than the other, whether she
thinks--(with honest anxiety this)--that my appearance is calculated to
repel a person grown disused to it. To all which questions, she with
untired gentleness gives pleasant and favorable answers.

The inability under which I labored of refraining from imparting _bad_
news is tenfold increased in the case of good. I must have some one to
whom to relate my prosperity. It will certainly _not_ be Mrs. Huntley
this time. Though I have struggled against the feeling as unjust, and
disloyal to my faith in Roger, I still cannot suppress a sharp pang of
distrust and jealousy, as often as I think of her, and of the relation
made to me by Frank, as to her former connection with my husband.
Neither am I in any hurry to tell Frank. To speak truth, I am in no
good-humor with him or with his unhandsome shilly-shallying, and
unaccountable postponement of what became a duty months ago.

Never mind! this also will come right when Roger returns. The delightful
stir and hubbub in my soul hinder me from working or reading, or any
tranquil in-door occupation; and, as afternoon draws on, fair and not
cold, I decide upon a long walk. The quick exercise will perhaps
moderately tire me, and subdue my fidgetiness by the evening, and nobody
can hinder me from thinking of Roger all the way.

Barbara has a cold--a nasty, stuffy, choky cold; so I must do without
her. Apparently I must do without Vick too. She makes a feint, indeed,
of accompanying me half-way to the front gate, then sits down on her
little shivering haunches, smirks, and when I call her, looks the other
way, affecting not to hear. On my calling more peremptorily, "Vick!
Vick!" she tucks her tail well in, and canters back to