Branderton held the door open and Bertha walked out, her face very pale, but showing not the least trace of emotion. Branderton walked to Leanham Vicarage to send Miss Glover to Court Leys, and then home, where he told his wife that the wretched widow was stunned by the shock. Bertha locked herself in her room. She heard the hum of voices in the house, Dr. Ramsay came to her door, but she refused to open; then all was quite still. She was aghast at the blankness of her heart, the tranquility was so inhuman that she wondered if she was going mad; she felt no emotion whatever. Bertha repeated to herself that Edward was killed; he was lying quite near at hand, dead--and she felt no grief. She remembered her anguish years before when she thought of his death; and now that it had taken place she did not faint, she did not weep, she was untroubled. Bertha had hidden herself to conceal her tears from strange eyes, and the tears came not. After her sudden suspicion was confirmed, she had experienced no emotion whatever; she was horrified that the tragic death affected her so little. She walked to the window and looked out, trying to gather her thoughts, trying to make herself care; but she was almost indifferent. “I must be frightfully cruel,” she muttered. Then the idea came of what her friends would say when they saw her calm self-possession. She tried to weep, but her eyes remained dry. There was a knock at the door, and Miss Glover’s voice, broken with tears, “Bertha, Bertha, wont you let me in? It’s me--Fanny.” Bertha sprang to her feet, but did not answer. Miss Glover called again, and her voice was choked with sobs. Why could Fanny Glover weep for Edward’s death, who was a stranger, when she, Bertha, remained insensible? “Bertha!” “Yes.” “Open the door for me. Oh, I’m so sorry for you. Please let me in.” Bertha looked wildly at the door, she dared not let Miss Glover come. “I can see no one now,” she cried, hoarsely. “Don’t ask me.” “I think I could comfort you.” “I want to be alone.” Miss Glover was silent for a minute, crying audibly. “Shall I wait downstairs? You can ring if you want me. Perhaps you’ll see me later.” Bertha wished to tell her to go away, but dared not. “Do as you like,” she said. There was silence again, an unearthly silence more trying than hideous din. It was a silence that tightened the nerves and made them horribly sensitive: one dared not breathe for fear of breaking it. And one thought came to Bertha, assailing her like a devil tormenting. She cried out in horror, for this was more odious than anything; it was simply intolerable. She threw herself on her bed and buried her face in her pillow to drive it away. For shame, she put her hands to her ears so as not to hear the invisible fiends that whispered it silently. _She was free._ She quailed before the thought, but could not crush it. “Has it come to this!” she murmured.