I spoke thus to remove her apprehensions; but the truth was, I could no longer account for William’s absence. I, who was so well acquainted with the distance, knew that I could have been twice to the town and back since he had left. The evening dews began to moisten our clothes, and especially the thin muslin that Eva wore. I drew her arm within mine, and led her toward the house. Hers was a gentle disposition—all submission, even her grief. Slowly she walked, her head bowed down, her eyes riveted on the marks which her husband’s horse had left on the sand. Good heavens! it was sad, returning thus at night, and still without William. In vain did we listen, all was silent—that grand silence of nature, which, in the country, at nightfall, nothing disturbs. How every feeling of restlessness is increased at such a time. The earth looked so sad; in the midst of the obscurity, it seemed to remind us that in life, likewise, all at times becomes clouded. It was the sight of this young woman which caused these reflections; had I been alone, they never would have entered my mind. We re-entered the house. Eva sat down on the couch, and remained motionless, her hands clasped on her knees, and her head sunk on her breast. A lamp had been placed on the mantle, and the light fell full on her face. Never shall I forget its expression; she was pale—pale as marble; her forehead and cheeks of the same deathly hue; the dampness of the evening had lengthened the curls of her hair, which fell in disorder over her shoulders. Bright drops trembled beneath her eye-lids, and the quivering of her livid lips, but too plainly betrayed the effort to restrain her tears. She was so young that her countenance seemed rather that of a child forbidden to weep. I began to feel disturbed, and did not know how to conduct myself toward her. Suddenly I recollected (it was truly a doctor’s idea) that amid her grief Eva had taken no nourishment since the morning; and the situation she was in rendered it imprudent to prolong this privation of all food. At the first mention I made of it, she raised her eyes reproachfully to mine, and this time the motion of her eye-lids caused two hot tears to course down her cheeks. “For your child, madame,” I said, respectfully. “Ah! it is true!” she murmured; and she rose and went into the dining-room. But in the dining-room there were two plates on the little table; this, for the moment, appeared to me so afflicting, that I stood still without uttering a word. The uneasiness that was creeping over me made me quite awkward. I was not even skillful enough to say things which I did not believe. The silence continued; and, nevertheless, I would say to myself, I am here to console her—it was for this she sent for me. There are, doubtless, a thousand reasons that might explain this delay; let me think of one—but I sought, and sought in vain. I then remained silent, inwardly cursing the little wit of a poor village doctor.