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And what was he doing now in her absence? Was he in torment, too; shaken
by gusts of uncontrollable longing for her; fighting off nightmare
imaginings of disasters that might be befalling her? Or was he happy,
drinking down in great thirsty drafts the nectar of liberty which her
incursion into his life had deprived him of? She didn't know which of
these alternatives was the more intolerable to her.
And the twins! Were they, the fine lusty little cherubs she had parted
from that day, smiling up with growing recognition into other
faces--Mrs. Ruston's and the maid Doris'? Or might there have been,
since the last information relayed by Portia, a sudden illness? Might it
be that there was going on now, in that house not a thousand yards away,
another life-and-death struggle like the one which had made an end of
all her hopes for the efficacy of her miracle?
The only treatment for hobgoblins like that was plain endurance. This
was a part of a somber sobering discovery that Rose had made during the
first few days of her new life.


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