estion, was almost as peaceful as
England.

For several days Isabel, from reaction after weeks of incessant gayety,
and the heaviness of early spring, was too languid to find even her
Leghorns interesting. She slept late, yawned through the day; and never
had her hammock--swung on the porch at the beginning of
spring--possessed so recurrent an attraction. At the same time she was
conscious, under the physical inertia which had brought her mind to a
standstill, that she avoided Rosewater lest she should be forced to talk
of Gwynne. He was still in Santa Barbara, and it was likely that he
would be persuaded to go with the Trennahans to Mexico. There was time
enough to seek his passport, and Isabel could well imagine that his
impatience was not uncontrollable. No doubt he understood by this time
that he could expect no change in her, if indeed he had not dismissed
the matter from his mind.

She was rudely shaken out of her apathy by a long telegram from him,
dated at El Paso:

"I have come this far with the Trennahans. Go on to Washington
to-day. Expect me any time now. But should I be detained will you
go over to the ranch occasionally? Use old power of attorney should
occasion arise. Glad you made the running you wanted at last.
Better order terra-cotta facings for The Otis. Am told that two
other buildings will go up shortly in neighborhood. Quite fit
again. E. G."

The delight and relief this telegram induced, the subtle sensation of
hope and flattery, not only routed torpidity, but lashed her into such a
state of fury that she ran up to her bedroom and indulged in an attack
of nerves. When it was over she faced the truth with the unshrinking
clarity of vision she could summon at will. But if she was not as
astonished as she thought she ought to be, she was no less angry, not
only with herself, but with life for playing her such a trick. Less than
ever did she want to marry, and cease to be wholly herself, to run the
risk of disillusionment and weariness, and that ultimate philosophy
which was no compensation for the atrophy and death of imagination. But
no less did she turn appalled from the thought of a future without
Gwynne. All her old vague plans were suddenly formless, and she felt
that if she even faced the prospect of regarding the shifting beauties
of the Rosewater marsh for the rest of her life, she would hate nature
as much as she now hated her treacherous self. And no