or
her father and mother to come upstairs. They came up by and by and went
to bed. The light that shone in through the chink under the door went
out. The house was still.

She went over to the window then, threw it wide open, and sat down
crouched upon the broad sill. She did not sob now nor wail out. She did
not feel like sobbing or wailing. She only wanted to think; she must
think, she had need to think. That this neglect of Halcombe Dike's meant
something she did not try to conceal from her bitter thoughts. He had
not neglected her in all his life before. It was not the habit, either,
of this grave young man with the earnest eyes to do or not to do without
a meaning. He would put silence and the winter between them. That was
what he meant. Sharley, looking out upon the windy dark with
straight-lidded eyes, knew that beneath and beyond the silence of the
winter lay the silence of a life.

The silence of a life! The wind hushed into a moment's calm while the
words turned over in her heart. The branches of a cherry-tree, close
under her sight, dropped lifelessly; a homesick bird gave a little,
still, mournful chirp in the dark. Sharley gasped.

"It's all because I shook Moppet! That's it. Because I shook Moppet this
morning. He used to like me,--yes, he did. He didn't know how cross and
ugly I am. No wonder he thought such a cross and ugly thing could never
be--could never be--"

She broke off, crimson. "His wife?" She would have said the words
without blush or hesitation a week ago. Halcombe Dike had spoken no word
of love to her. But she had believed, purely and gravely, in the deeps
of her maiden thought, that she was dear to him. Gravely and purely too
she had dreamed that this October Sunday would bring some sign to her of
their future.

He had been toiling at that business in the city now a long while.
Sharley knew nothing about business, but she had fancied that, even
though his "prospects" were not good, he must be ready now to think of a
home of his own,--at least that he would give her some hope of it to
keep through the dreary, white winter. But he had given her nothing to
keep through the winter, or through any winter of a wintry life;
nothing. The beautiful Sunday was over. He had come, and he had gone.
She must brush away the pretty fancy. She must break the timid dream.
So that grave, sweet word had died in shame upon her lips. She should
not be his wife. She should never be anybody's wife.

The S