He is on his way to England. Of course he has gone to his sister. What
did her sweet complaints and regrets at not having his help and
company mean but 'Come to me, Roland'? She has lost her own husband
and now she must have mine. She has always been my evil angel. When
she was kindest to me it was only a different way of serving herself.
My soul warned me; my father warned me. She is one of those human
vampires who suck love, luck, life itself from all near them, and who
slay, and rob, and smile, and caress while they do it. And I am to go
home for a year and get back my beauty and my voice. I am sorry I ever
was beautiful. If I can help it I will never sing another song. Go
home and shame my good father and mother for his sake? Go home and be
lectured and advised and reproved by every woman in the village? Go
home a deserted wife, a failure in everything? No; I will not go home.
Nor will I go to Italy. I have had more than enough of singing for my
living and his living, too. I will sew, I will wash, I will go to
service, I will do anything with my hands I can do; but I will not
sing. And I will bring up my boy to work at real work, if it is but to
make a horseshoe out of a lump of iron! God! what a foolish woman I
have been! What a silly, vain, loving woman! My heart will break! My
heart will break! Alone, alone! Sick, helpless, ignorant, alone!"

She closed her eyes and hid her face, and in that darkness gathered
together her soul-strength. But she shed no tears. Pale as death, weak
and trembling with suppressed emotion, she went softly about the
little room putting things in order--doing she scarcely knew what, yet
feeling the necessity to be doing something. Thus she came across the
white gloves, and she feared to look in them. Her knowledge of Roland
led her to think he would not leave fifty dollars behind him. He would
take the credit of the gift and leave her to suppose herself robbed by
some intruder or visitor.

So she looked suspiciously at the bit of white kid and undid it
without hope. The money was there. After all, Roland had some pity for
her. The sight of the bills subdued her proud restraint. One great
pressure was lifted. No one could now interfere if she sent for a
doctor for her sick baby. She could at least buy it the medicine that
would ease its sufferings. And so far out was the tide of her
happiness that from this reflection alone she drew a kind of
consolation.

CHAPTER XIII.

DEATH