“If it were any place to which you could have gone with me, I would have refused.” “Oh!” He looked at her uneasily, but said no more; she heard him whistling softly as he was getting dressed. In reality his conscience was uncomfortably pricking him. He felt that he had let her bear too much alone, that he might have been more thoughtful—he couldn’t exactly tell how. He registered a mental vow to take her out somewhere the very first chance he got. He came in the nursery to say good-by to the children and to her. She asked: “What train will you take back to-night?” “I don’t suppose I can get anything earlier than the twelve.” “You mean the one that gets here at a quarter to one?” “Yes, of course. Don’t sit up for me.” He was gone; the door had closed behind him—he was gone. Almost before she realized it, he was gone. It could not be—she was not ready to have him go yet! There were so many things she had meant to say to him. She would have rushed to the door to call him back, but Redge cried out for her. She took him from his crib and ran to the window with him, over the floor that was strewed with play-things—Justin was already nearly out of sight. He must, he must, he _must_ come back again! He must. She willed it so intensely that he must feel it, if he loved her, and come back. If you willed things hard enough, they happened; people said so. She was willing, willing, _willing_ him to come back. She watched the clock, and listened for the sound of the passing train. Seven minutes to walk to the station—seven minutes to walk back again, as she willed him to come. Thirty minutes had passed; he had stopped here, there, or yon, on his way home. An hour—and he had not come! She had willed in vain. He had gone. From six o’clock until a quarter of one,—until one o’clock, for the midnight train was always late,—that was seven hours. Seven hours to wait, seven hours to think and think. She gave the children their supper; she laughed with them, she played with them, helped the nurse undress them, sang them to sleep, with that dreadful undercurrent of thinking all the time. She had her dinner, eating without knowing what she ate, trying to take a long while at it. Afterwards she lighted the lamp in the little drawing-room, took out her sewing, and sat down there to wait. There were five hours and a half yet. There was a ring at the door-bell about eight o’clock, which proved the herald of little Mrs. Snow, holding in one hand a provisionary vial. “No, thank you, I won’t sit down,” she said, in answer to Lois’ invitation. “I just ran over to see if you could let me have a little cough medicine for William to-night, he has a little tickle in his throat that keeps him coughing, I knew it was no use telling _him_ to get any medicine, so I said to Bertha, ‘Bertha, I’m just going to run over to Mrs. Alexander’s and see if she can lend me a spoonful of cough mixture.’ I’ll have my bottle renewed to-morrow.”