But this guessing, she told herself, was nonsense, useless nonsense. When her husband came home, she would tell him just what she suspected and ask him to show her everything. He would surely set her mind at rest. Then with a sharp sensation of pain she realized that she would not be able to believe his word. While he talked to her, while he was with her, she would be convinced that his course was not dishonorable,--and it was that conviction rather than the truth that she wanted,--but with the next morning, when she was alone, waiting to learn what was happening, to-day’s fears and to-day’s distrust would come back again stronger than ever. No, she could not look to him for help. She must fight out this battle, this last battle--alone. Going to her desk she pencilled a little note:-- “Will you please excuse me if I don’t come down to dinner? Don’t bother about it, it’s nothing serious. I’m tired--that’s all--and I’m trying to get a long rest.” Then she called her maid. “I’m not going down to dinner. I wish you’d give this to Mr. Sponley when he comes in.” As she gave the note to the maid, their fingers touched. “How cool your hands are!” she exclaimed. “Don’t go just yet. I want them on my forehead. Why are your hands so cold, child?” “Your head is very hot,” the maid answered. “I think that is the reason.” “They feel cool, anyway,” said Harriet. “There, that will do. I’m a great deal better already.” “Shall I bring you anything--anything to eat or a cup of tea?” “I think I should like some coffee,” Harriet answered, after a moment’s reflection. “Oh, and anything to eat that you please; I don’t want to think about it.” Harriet regretted her decision the moment the maid was fairly out of the room; she needed company, not something to eat. At the end of ten minutes she was wondering impatiently why the maid did not come back, and her uneasiness grew steadily greater during the half hour that elapsed before she heard the familiar step outside her door. But the reprimand that was on Harriet’s lips was checked by the look of misery in her attendant’s face. Neither spoke, and there was silence until, as the girl spilled some of the coffee she was trying to pour, and then dropped the cup, she burst out crying. “Oh, don’t cry, don’t cry!” said Harriet, easily; “that doesn’t matter. But you shouldn’t have stopped to quarrel with James. That always makes you unhappy afterward, you know.” “I didn’t, I haven’t--quarrelled with him--since yesterday morning.” Harriet smiled. “You aren’t going to tell me that James has at last got up heart enough to scold you. You ought to be glad if he has. It’s very good for people to be scolded when they are young; but I’ve never been able to do it.” But the girl refused to be comforted, and Harriet saw that here was something more serious than the almost daily lovers’ quarrels which had been affording her so much entertainment in the past few months.