“I am sure he is worried about money,” she said to herself, “and that he is in debt; but he shall not have these anxieties long—it is much better that his uncle should know about our marriage.” Her eyes turned towards the window and the garden and the trees with the rain falling on them. “I wonder if he has gone far; I hope he is not depressed. I fear he worries himself unduly,” she said, and went into the dining-room. The slippers were toasting in the fender; she turned the easy-chair towards the fire and put beside it a little table from the corner of the room. Then she went for the papers she had brought from London, and arranged them on the table, and put the bunch of violets in a glass and set it by the papers. She drew back and looked at the cosy arrangement with satisfaction. “My darling Alfred!” she said to herself; and then, softly, as if she were afraid of Jane hearing her, she crept out of the front door and under the verandah that went round the house, and looked out at the weather. The rain had nearly stopped, but the sky was grey and the air was cold. She pulled her shawl closer, and, trying to shake off the chill that was overtaking her, went swiftly down the garden pathway. At the far end the grass was long and wet; the drops fell from the beeches and larches above. She found the narrow pathway that led to the dip, and went along it. She looked anxiously ahead, but there was no sign of Alfred. “I know he will be glad to see me,” she thought. “I know the silent tenderness of his heart—my darling—my darling, you are all I have in the world!”