s? Oh,
no--it was only the New York air...like Cicely, she pined for a breath
of the woods.... And so, the day Mr. Langhope left, she and Cicely were
packed off to Lakewood.

They stayed there a week: then a fit of restlessness drove Justine back
to town. She found an excuse in the constant rain--it was really
useless, as she wrote Mr. Langhope, to keep the child imprisoned in an
over-heated hotel while they could get no benefit from the outdoor life.
In reality, she found the long lonely hours unendurable. She pined for a
sight of her husband, and thought of committing Cicely to Mrs. Ansell's
care, and making a sudden dash for Hanaford. But the vision of the long
evenings in the Westmore drawing-room again restrained her. No--she
would simply go back to New York, dine out occasionally, go to a concert
or two, trust to the usual demands of town life to crowd her hours with
small activities.... And in another week Mr. Langhope would be back and
the days would resume their normal course.

On arriving, she looked feverishly through the letters in the hall. None
from Wyant--that fear was allayed! Every day added to her reassurance. By
this time, no doubt, he was on his feet again, and ashamed--unutterably
ashamed--of the threat that despair had wrung from him. She felt almost
sure that his shame would keep him from ever attempting to see her, or
even from writing again.

"A gentleman called to see you yesterday, madam--he would give no name,"
the parlour-maid said. And there was the sick fear back on her again!
She could hardly control the trembling of her lips as she asked: "Did he
leave no message?"

"No, madam: he only wanted to know when you'd be back."

She longed to return: "And did you tell him?" but restrained herself,
and passed into the drawing-room. After all, the parlour-maid had not
described the caller--why jump to the conclusion that it was Wyant?

Three days passed, and no letter came--no sign. She struggled with the
temptation to describe Wyant to the servants, and to forbid his
admission. But it would not do. They were nearly all old servants, in
whose eyes she was still the intruder, the upstart sick-nurse--she could
not wholly trust them. And each day she felt a little easier, a little
more convinced that the unknown visitor had not been Wyant.

On the fourth day she received a letter from Amherst. He hoped to be
back on the morrow, but as his plans were still uncertain he would
telegraph in the