action, yes, even the least hopeful, anything that would have been
action, would have made the pain supportable; she could have drawn
breath then, enough for life's purposes; now she was stifling. There
was some mystery; there was something wrong; some mistake, or
misapprehension, or malpractice; _something_, which if she could put
her hand on, all would be right. And it was hidden from her; dark; it
might be near or far, she could not touch it, for she could not find
it. There was even no place for suspicion to take hold, unless the
curiosity of the post office, or of some prying neighbour; she did not
suspect Evan; and yet there was a great throb at her heart with the
thought that in Evan's place _she_ would never have let things rest.
Nothing should have kept the silence so long unbroken; if the first
letter got no answer, she would have written another. So would Diana
have done now, without being in Evan's place, if only she had had his
address. And that cruel woman to-day! did she know, or did she guess,
anything? or was it another of the untoward circumstances attending the
whole matter?

It came to her now, a thought of regret that she had not ventured the
disagreeableness and told her mother long ago of her interest in Evan.
Mrs. Starling could take measures that her daughter could not take. If
she pleased, that is; and the doubt also recurred, whether she would
please. It was by no means certain; and at any rate now, in her
mortification and pain, Diana could not invite her mother into her
counsels. She felt that as from her window she watched the receding
waggon, and saw Mrs. Starling turn from the gate and walk in.
Uncompromising, unsympathizing, even her gait and the set of her head
and shoulders proclaimed her to be. Diana was alone with her trouble.

An hour afterwards she came down as usual, strained the milk, skimmed
her cream, went through the whole little routine of the household
evening; her hands were steady, her eye was true, her memory lost
nothing. But she did not speak one word, unless, which was seldom, a
word was spoken to her. So went on the next day, and the next.
November's days were trailing along, December's would follow; there was
no change from one to another; no variety. Less than ever before; for,
with morbid sensitiveness, Diana shrank from visitors and visiting.
Every contact gave her pain.

Meanwhile, where was Evan's second letter? On its way, and in the post
office.

It was l