Fanny was perfectly satisfied with this, for she could talk dress and society to Lettie very much better than to a man. But as her conversation was mainly confined to these topics, I am afraid that Lettie found it a trifle wearisome. There was only one other topic that Fanny _could_ talk about, and that was her husband. She had never been an affectionate wife, probably because she had never been called upon to show her affection. But as the months went past and the certainty of his election became more apparent, she would talk of his many good qualities for hours at a time, and Lettie would listen with wearied indifference. There was no relief. Coleman was busy writing leaders for the untrammeled press--that is, such of the untrammeled press as were in favor of _their_ “reform” candidate; and Mr. Morain was busy at the mill. Lettie would go down there occasionally and talk with old Pat, while she watched the busy saw slice the massive logs of odorous pine into lumber as easily and smoothly as one could cut cheese. Or standing with him on the banks of the rapid saffron-hued river, watch the red-shirted raftsmen, while they sprang from log to log, running as lightly and surely on the rapidly moving logs as an ordinary person could over a kitchen floor. This she could do occasionally; but the greater part of the time she was obliged to sit and listen to Fanny’s insane drivel. She would have fled from it, only that she dreaded to return to Chicago. And often during this time she would long for the quiet home and affectionate greetings that were waiting for her in that little Pennsylvania village. She fully intended to return there some day, but she did not feel strong enough yet. She must wait until she became stronger and purer. She had been thinking of all this one day--thinking of her aunt and the pleasant village home, and of Lester Conway, until her heart ached with longing. “If he were only away,” she murmured passionately, “I could go back there. Dear old auntie would forgive me, even if she knew; but I cannot face him yet.” And so she thought and thought, until, fearing to be alone longer with her thoughts, she went wearily down to the sitting room to join Fanny. “My goodness, Lettie, your eyes look perfectly shocking!” cried that amiable lady, as she entered the room. “Have you been crying?” “No; I never cry,” returned Lettie coldly. “I have a headache, that is all.” “Bathe it in cologne,” suggested Fanny. “That always cures my headache.” “I am afraid it would not cure mine,” said Lettie. “I will lie down for a while, and perhaps it will get better.” She lay down on a sofa near the window, and dreamily watched the clouds sail past. She could see the lake from where she was, and could see the waves roll in and break themselves upon the sandy shore.