She could hear the furnace roaring below. She hoped all that inflammable stuff would not set the roof on fire. That is to say, she did not want to attract attention by the burning of her house. Otherwise she was indifferent about what might happen. If only she might escape notice for a while, until she could adjust herself to this horror! In spite of the closed registers, a strong odor of burning wool filled the house. She got up and raised the windows. She hoped the scent would be gone before Maria and Buck came in the morning. Then she rested, as one does after accomplishing something that must be done, no matter how unhappy one is. At seven o’clock she heard stirrings in the kitchen as usual, but no voices. This was not as usual, because there was always the subdued rumble of conversation between these two servants early in the morning. But she did not notice it. She rang for Maria and informed her that she would take her breakfast in bed. She had never done this before; still Maria showed no signs of surprise. She rolled her eyes and sniffed the air of this house, which did not smell pure and undefiled. She was in such a state of suppressed excitement that she could barely wait to get back to the kitchen to whisper the news to Buck, who was just coming up the stairs from the basement where he had been to interview the furnace. Servants are the scavengers of all domesticity, especially of wrecked domesticity. For the next three days Helen remained in bed. She was not ill; but she was not able to face life on her feet. When your whole existence has been absorbed by the life of another person--his will, his desires and his habits have determined your every act--it is not so easy to have freedom and the pursuit of your own happiness suddenly thrust upon you. It is necessary to acquire new motives and new interests. Besides, Helen was obliged to face the humiliation of her abandonment. So, as I have said, she remained in bed, very quiet, very pale, very submissive to Maria’s ministrations. When she was alone, she lay for hours scarcely moving, strangely abstracted. No doubt we come somewhat after this fashion always into the next existence. One thing was certain: The burden of her thoughts was not her recreant husband, else there would have been tears, anguish, fever and presently the doctor in attendance. A great grief may be a great exaltation. Helen had this high look when Maria brought her breakfast tray in on the fourth morning. She was not merry; she had nothing to say; but she had arrived somewhere in her mind. It was obvious even to Maria that her mistress was about to do something. She wanted to know what day of the month this was, as a person who has been deliriously ill always asks about the time of day when he recovers consciousness. Maria told her that this was the fifth. “Of what month?” was the astonishing next question. “August, Miss Helen.”