As the afternoon of that first day of solitude wore on, and the hour for Rufus’ return drew near, she swept and dusted and garnished the dreary little room as well as she could, put the shining tin kettle on the grate, and made her simple toilet, putting on her best dress, a cheap pink lawn that contrasted well with her berry-brown complexion, and winding a pink ribbon in her hair. She looked very pretty and fresh and bright when she had finished, and she stood by the window, her face pressed to the glass, all hopefulness and expectancy, and looked out upon the opposite side of the crescent until long after the hour appointed for her husband’s return. But when evening came on and the gas lamps were lighted in the streets, her expectancy was changed to a terrible anxiety and she put on her shabby little hat and hurried out to a little newsstand, investing a penny in an evening paper, with a vague idea that there must have been an accident on the line and that her husband had perhaps been killed. But no accident being reported, she returned to her poor little home, and waited for him with what patience she could summon. But he came not, and no message, letter, or telegram came to allay her fears. She waited for him until midnight, hearkening to every step in the street, and then lay down without undressing, consoling herself with the thought that Rufus would be home in the morning. But morning came, and Rufus did not come. Poor Lally was too anxious to prepare her breakfast, and sustained her strength by eating a piece of bread while she watched from the window. She assured herself that it was all right, that Rufus’ prolonged absence was a sign that he had reconciled himself with his father, and that probably he would return in company with his parent. This idea prompted her to brush her tangled waves of hair, and to press out her tumbled dress and otherwise make herself presentable. As the day deepened a conviction that something had happened that was adverse to her happiness dawned upon her. It was not like Rufus to leave her in such suspense, and she was sure that some harm had come to him. “Perhaps he has been murdered and thrown out of the railway coach,” she thought, her round eyes growing big with horror. “I will go to Wyndham by the next train.” She was about to put on her hat when her landlady, a coarse, ill-bred woman, opened the door unceremoniously, and entered her presence. “Going out, Mrs. Black?” she demanded, with a sniff of suspicion. “I hope you are not going off, like the last lodger I had in this ’ere blessed room, without paying of the rent? I hope you don’t intend to give me the slip, Mrs. Black, which you’ve got no clothes nor furniture to pay the rent, and you owing ten and sixpence!”