“Only Justin”! The words brought an exquisite joy with them—only Justin, the one man in all the world for her. There was but a half-hour now until dinner-time. It had passed, and he had not come; but he was often late—Still he did not come; that happened too, sometimes. The two women sat down to dinner alone, at last. The baby woke up afterwards, an unusual thing, and wailed, and would not stop; Lois, divested of her rich apparel and once more swathed in a loose, shabby gown, rocked and soothed the infant interminably, while Dosia, her efforts to help unavailing, crouched over a book down-stairs, trying to read. After an interval of quiet she went up again, to find Lois at last lying down. “It’s eleven o’clock, Lois; I think I’ll go to bed. Shall I leave the gas burning down-stairs?” “Yes, please do; he can’t get anything now but the last train out.” “And you don’t want me to stay here with you?” “No—oh, no.” As once before, Lois waited for that train—yet how differently! If that injured feeling rose, for an instant, at his not having sent her word, she crushed it back as one would crush the head of a viper that showed itself between the crevices of the hearthstone. She would not pity herself—she would not pity herself! She knew now that madness lay that way. The night was clear and warm, the stars were shining, as she got up and sat by the window, looking out from behind the curtain, her beautiful braided hair over one shoulder. The last train came in, the people from it, in twos and threes, straggled down the street, but not Justin. He must have missed that last train out—of course he must have missed it! We are apt to fancy causeless disaster to those we love; the amount of “worry” more or less willingly indulged in by uncontrolled minds seems at times enough to swamp the understanding. Yet there is a foreboding, unsought, unwelcomed, combated, which, once felt, can never be counterfeited; it carries with it some chill, unfathomed quality of truth. Lois knew now that she had had this foreboding all day. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE “And you haven’t heard _anything_ of him yet?” “Not yet, Mrs. Alexander. I’m sorry—oh, so sorry—to have nothing more to tell you. But I’m sure we’ll hear something before morning.”