Mrs. Payton did not urge; back in her mind there was a dim memory of a time when she, too, had been alive--and suffered, and wanted to be alone. She said something, hesitatingly, to this effect to Arthur Weston, who dropped in that morning to know how they were getting along. "Freddy has gone out to that awful place, to pack up," she said; "I'm sure it's very damp, and I'm terribly afraid she'll take cold. But she would go. Sometimes a person likes to be by themselves," she ended. He was surprised at such understanding; but he only said, quietly, that he would drive out late in the afternoon and bring her home in his car. "She can have eight hours to herself," he said. (He had had some hours to himself in the last few days; hours of pacing up and down his library--saying over and over, "If Maitland isn't in love with her, why shouldn't I at least tell her that I--? No! I have no chance. But if she _should_ forget him? No, no. I mustn't think of it!") For the eight hours alone Frederica had been thirsting: Solitude. Lapping--lapping--lapping water. Wind in the branches. Shadows traveling across distant hills. And no human face! No human sound! So, with Zip under her arm, she took the early train to Lakeville. From the station she walked along the sandy road where dead leaves had begun to fill the wheel-ruts, down to the huddle of boarded-up cottages on the shore. The last time she had gone over that road, how thick the fog had been! Now, the lake was a placid white shimmer against the horizon's brooding haze, and the glimmering October sunshine lay like gilt on the frosted ferns and brakes. She did not meet a single soul. Except for Zip, dashing along in front of her, or an occasional crow cawing, and flapping from one tree-top to another, there was only the wide silence of the sky. The sense of getting away from people gave her a feeling of relief that was almost physical. When she reached Lakeville the sight of Sunrise Cottage was like a blow; she stopped short, and caught her breath. The lamp Howard had left outside the house had fallen over--perhaps a squirrel had upset it; the solferino shade was in fragments; leaves had blown up on the porch. But the flinching was only for a moment--then she turned the key in the lock. The bungalow, with its shut-up smell, was just as they had left it, except that, in some indescribable way, it had lost the air of human habitation. Perhaps because Death had been there. In the faint draught from the open door a sheet of music slipped from the piano to the floor and some ashes blew out of the fireplace. The cottage was absolutely silent. Frederica felt cold between her shoulders. She did not want to go in, she did not want to have to turn her back on the stairs that led up to the vacant rooms--Flora's room! She shivered; set her lips and entered--but she left the door open behind her into the living world.