There was a significance in his manner as well as in his words which brought a flush into Emilia's face. "She will not come! She shall not come!" What fresh misery was in store for her? A terrible fear stole upon her. The undeserved shame she had passed through in her native town glided from the past and hovered like a spectre over her. She turned with a sob toward Leonard, who a short time afterward made his appearance. He pretended not to notice her agitation, and did not afford her an opportunity of opening a conversation with him. "Would you like to come into the open air?" he asked. "Yes, Leonard," she said, noting also the coldness of his voice. "Will you assist me down?" He nodded, and she took his arm; but she missed the gentle and considerate guidance which she had a right to expect. He placed a chair for her in front of the inn, and stood a few paces from her. Not a soul spoke to her. Men and women whom she remembered, whose faces she recognized, and with whom she was upon friendly terms when Gerald was with her, passed to and fro, and exchanged cordial words with Leonard, but did not address a single word to her. If by chance their eyes met hers, which, after a little while, were turned appealingly toward them, they turned abruptly from her, with looks of displeasure and aversion which chilled her heart. Even the innkeeper's daughter came near her, but did not approach close enough to speak to her. Yet she spoke to Leonard. Emilia beckoned to him. "I cannot remain here any longer," she said. "I must go to my room." She did not ask for his arm, nor did he offer it. Weak, and beset with torturing doubts, she clung to the wall as she ascended the stairs. In silence they entered the room. Leonard stood mute by the door. "Have you nothing to say to me?" she asked presently. "Nothing," he replied, "until you are stronger." "I have borne so much in the past," she said, "that I can bear anything you have to tell. "I will wait," he said, and left the room. Long did she ponder over the strange conduct of those who were once her friends, but she could not account for it. She felt herself alone in a strange land. Gerald was lost to her, and she was without a friend. She did not give way to despair; she nerved herself to strength and fortitude; another life would soon be dependent upon her; for the sake of her unborn child it was her duty to keep up her heart. Some days passed, and not a friendly word was spoken to her, not a friendly hand was held out. She suffered without remonstrance; dark as was the present there was a sweet light in the future. She would have her child in her arms before many weeks elapsed, Gerald's child. Spiritual baby eyes looked into hers; spiritual baby hands were stretched toward her. "For your sake, my darling, for your sake!" she murmured.