So Theodora sat still and let the house go on. Not until she was dressing for dinner did a maid come to attend to her rooms, but she made no remark. A short time afterwards, the girl returned with a letter and the information, that it had been opened by Mrs. Campbell through mistake. It was from Theodora's publisher, and purported to contain a check for seventy pounds and fifteen shillings for royalties due her. But the check was not in the letter. Her heart beat wildly, her cheeks burned, she rose as if to go and inquire for it; but on second thoughts she sat down and waited until Robert came into the room. Then she showed him the letter. He barely glanced at it, then threw it on the table. "Will you ask your mother for my money, Robert? I want to buy David and myself some necessary clothing." "I have the check." "Give it to me, Robert. I need it so much." "I put it in my pocket-book, because it is mine. I give it to you, because I choose to give it to you. Most husbands would not do so." "You need not at every opportunity tell me that I have no rights, and no money, even if I myself have earned the money. One telling of such awful injustice is enough. I wish to know if my letters are also yours?" "If I choose to claim them, they are mine." "Are they also free to your mother?" "If I choose to make them so." "Then I will do without letters." "You can please yourself." She did not answer, and he went into the dining-room. In a short time she steadied herself sufficiently to follow him, but no one but Isabel took the slightest notice of her. Mrs. Campbell was in high spirits, and talked with her son in a jocular way about some event of which Theodora was ignorant. Jepson watched her plate and saw that she was attended to, and Isabel showed her disapproval of her mother's and brother's behavior by a sullen silence. For she was slow-minded, and could think of no way to express her sympathy with Theodora, except sulking at those who were annoying her. But she rose from the table when Theodora rose, and when Theodora said "Good-night, Isabel," she answered: "I should like to come into your parlor for a few minutes--if agreeable." "You are very welcome, Isabel." "Thank you. I only wanted to say, that I had nothing to do with the opening of your letter. I would no more open your letter, than I would pick your pocket." "I am sure of that, Isabel. I wish you were my friend. I am very lonely since Christina went away. Have you heard from her?" "Not one word. I am very lonely too. Good-night." And Theodora thought until sleep came of the girl's sad face, and pitied her more than she pitied herself. For hope was building a new life in her heart, and she looked forward to a future, that in its freedom, beauty, and usefulness would atone for the present, and the past years of her married life; but, oh the sameness, and ennui, and moral and mental death of a life without aim or purpose, without love or expectations, or sensible work to do.