There were intervals now when all my grief for mother returned, and I sat in my darkened chamber, recalling with a sad persistence her gestures, her motions, the tones of her voice, through all the past back to my first remembrance. The places she inhabited, her opinions and her actions I commented on with a minuteness that allowed no detail to escape. When my thoughts turned from her, it seemed as if she were newly lost in the vast and wandering Universe of the Dead, whence I had brought her. In September a letter came from Ben, which promised a return by the last of October. With the ruffling autumnal breezes my stagnation vanished, and I began my shore life again in a mood which made memory like hope; but staying out too late one evening, I came home in a chill. From the chill I went to a fever, which lasted some days. Veronica came every day to see me, and groaned over my hair, which fell off, but she could not stay long, the smell of medicine made her ill, the dark room gave her an uneasiness; besides, she did not know what she should say. I sent her away always. Fanny took care of me till I was able to move about the room, then she absented herself most of the time. One afternoon Veronica came to tell me that Margaret, the Irish girl, was going; she supposed that Fanny was insufferable, and that she could not stay. "I must be well by to-morrow," I said. The next day I went down stairs, and was greeted with the epithet of "Scarecrow." "Do you feel pretty strong?" asked Fanny, with a peculiar accent, when we happened to be alone. "What is the matter? Out with it!" "Something's going to turn up here; something ails Mr. Morgeson." I guess his ailment. "He is going to fail, he is smashed all to nothing. He knows what will be said about him, yet he goes about with perfect calmness. But he feels it. I tried him this morning, I gave him tea instead of coffee, and he didn't know it!" "Margaret's gone?" "There must be rumors; for she asked him for her wages a day or two ago. He paid her, and said she had better go." I examined my hands involuntarily. She tittered. "How easily you will wash the long-necked glasses and pitchers, with your slim hand!" I dropped into a mental calculation, respecting the cost of an entire change of wardrobe suitable to our reduced circumstances, and speculated on a neat cottage-style of cookery. "I think I must go, too," she said with cunning eyes. "How can you bear to, when there will be so much trouble for you to enjoy?" "How tired you look, Cass," said Veronica, slipping in quietly. "What are you talking about? Has Fanny been tormenting you?" "Of course," she answered. "But if am not mistaken, you will be tormented by others besides me." "Go out!" said Veronica. "Leave us, pale pest." "You may want me here yet." "What does she mean, Cass?" I hesitated. "Tell me," she said, in her imperative, gentle voice. "What is there that I cannot know?"