It was not the fault of either that they still loved each other. Only Robert might have shown her the letter, she thought with quivering lips; there was no need to keep it from her. She would know it when Mary came to the house, anyway. She might have guessed the reason for his sudden change, she thought, wiping away her tears, only her mind had been so filled with the household preparations for moving that Mary had been quite forgotten. For a while she gently rocked the sleeping child, watching its sweet, flushed face, listening to its soft breathing, and soon all disturbing thoughts slipped away from her troubled mind, and a peaceful, holy calm entered her patient heart and shone through her love-lit eyes. Covering its little form carefully, she carried the cradle into her chamber and placed it within reach of her bed. Then as she disrobed for the night in dreary silence, her eyes fixed on the pale face of her husband, who was tossing and muttering in his sleep, a tender wave of pity swept over her at the thought of the sweet lass who would shortly pass out of their lives forever, leaving only a sweet, haunting memory behind to remind them of her pathetic young life. Quickly she slipped into bed beside her restless husband, upon whose feverish cheek she pressed a tender kiss, and closing her tired eyes, fancied she slept, though her sleep was but a waking dream of love for her husband and children, in which all bright hopes and vague longings reached their utmost fulfillment, and yet were in some strange way crossed with shadows of sorrow and grief, which she had no power to disperse.