“I thought,” she said bewildered, and with the strange hunted look on her face, as she entered the cottage—“I thought God had forgiven me and sent him back, but it is all a mistake. Perhaps it is part of my punishment.” Everything looked strange to her; as if years had passed since she had gone out only an hour ago. She stood by the drawing-room door for a moment, looking in at the fire that had burned up and made a cheerful blaze, but she was afraid to go nearer to it. She felt like an outcast from everywhere; there was no place for her in the world, no one who wanted her, nothing left to do. And there was no love for her, and no forgetfulness; she had to bear pain—that alone was her portion. She wanted most of all to lie down and die, but death and love alike are often strangely difficult to those who need them most. She meandered into the kitchen, without any settled plan of what she was going to do. “Jane,” she said, “the moment you have finished taking in the dinner, I want you to go upstairs and follow the directions I will give you.” “Yes, ma’am,” Jane answered, with some astonishment when she had listened to them; “but do you mean to-night?” “Yes, I mean to-night,” Aunt Anne said, and turned away. “Let me take your shawl, ma’am; it is wringing wet.” “I shall be glad if you will divest me of it,” the old lady said gently, “and if you will bring me my cap and slippers; I am fatigued, and cannot ascend the stairs.” She sat down for a minute, and listened to Jane’s footsteps going and returning. It seemed as if the whole house were full of shame and agony; a single step in any direction might take her into its midst—she did not dare venture there till she had finished the task that was before her. She went into the dining-room, with a strange, bewildered air still upon her, as if she were doubtful whether it was the room that she had known so well, or if it had, somehow, been changed in the last hour. The cloth was laid; the primroses were in their place; the candles were lighted, for it was nearly dinner-time; the blinds were down, and the curtains drawn. She looked at the easy-chair she had put ready for Alfred, with the little table beside it, and the papers and the violets. Then she went up to the mantelpiece and rang a hand-bell that stood on it. “Jane,” she said, “take away Mr. Wimple’s slippers—he will not require them; put them with the other things as I told you.” She pushed the easy-chair to its place, away from the fire, put the little table back into the corner, and hid the papers and the violets out of sight, for she could not bear to see them. She looked at the cloth again, and taking up the things that had been laid for her carried them to the sideboard.