But on the morrow there was no letter. Ellen watched the postman pass the house, and she turned sick and white. Mrs. Cumberland--who was better and had risen early, expecting Captain Bohun, and that the marriage would certainly take place that day--took the absence of letters with philosophy. "He might as well have written a line, of course, Ellen; but it only shows that he is coming in by the first train. That will be due in twenty minutes." Ellen stood at the window, watching: her spirit faint, her heart beating. That vague undercurrent of uneasiness had grown into a recognized fear now--but a fear she knew not of what. She made no pretence to eating any breakfast; she could not have swallowed a morsel had it been to save her life: Mrs. Cumberland said nothing, except that she must take some after Captain Bohun had arrived. "There's the train, Ellen. I hear the whistle." Ellen sat behind the Venetian blind at the window, glancing through it. Three or four straggling passengers were at length perceived, making their way down the street. But not one of them was Captain Bohun. The disappointment was turning her heart to sickness, when a station fly came careering gaily up the street. Ah, how hope rose again! She might have known he would take a fly, and not _walk_ up. The driver seemed making for their house. Ellen's eyes grew bright; her pale cheeks changed to rose-colour. "Is that fly coming here, my dear?" "I think so, Mrs. Cumberland." "Then it is Captain Bohun. We must let the clergyman know at once, Ellen." The fly stopped at their house, and Ellen turned away; she would not seem to be looking for him, though he was so soon to be her husband. But--something was shrilly called out from the inside; upon which the driver started on again, and pulled up at the next door. A lady and child got out. It was _not_ Captain Bohun. I wonder whether disappointment so great ever fell on woman? Great emotions, whether of joy or sorrow, are always silent. The heart alone knoweth its own bitterness, says the wise King, and a stranger may not intermeddle with its joy. Ellen laid her hands for a minute or two on her bosom; but she never spoke. "He will be here by the next train," said Mrs. Cumberland. "He _must_ come, you know, Ellen." She watched through the livelong day. How its hours dragged themselves along she knew not. Imagination pictured all sorts of probabilities that might bring him at any moment. He might post down: he might have alighted by mistake at the wrong station, and walk on: he might have arrived by the last train, and be changing his dress at the hotel after travelling. Five hundred ideas, alternating with despair, presented themselves to her. And thus the weary day went on. Towards night the same delusive hope of the morning again rose; the same farce, of the possible arrival of Captain Bohun, was gone through.