The travellers were to arrive at Wellfield late on the afternoon of the following day. Ellen was to have one night’s rest, and to return on the following day to Elberthal, so that Sara could not expect to see her until the third evening after the day of departure. It is best not to go into the history of those days—those three nights and four days which Sara spent by herself. It is enough, that as each day went by, and brought neither word nor sign from Wellfield, she felt her heart wither and die within her. Hope was quenched. She did not hope for Ellen’s return, but she looked to it for information: Ellen would perhaps have made some observation, would have learnt something as to the reason of all this strange mystery, which, while it lasted, so bewildered her that she scarce knew whether she was in her sane mind or out of it. She scarcely hoped for an explanation; she did not see how the case admitted of one, but she waited—waited with a forced patience, a false quiet, which forced her to put an almost unbearable strain upon her nerves, and which consumed her like a fever. She would not reproach; she would not accuse; she would wait, wait, wait, she said to herself, a hundred times, and this waiting was eating out her heart, while her pride was humbled to the dust. On the second afternoon, Rudolf Falkenberg called. He started when he saw her. ‘Miss Ford! You are ill. What is the matter?’ ‘I am not ill, only a little headachy and nervous. I want to see Ellen, and hear that Avice has arrived at home.’ His heart was wrung, but he could not say more; he saw from her manner that she was in no mood for conversation, friendly or otherwise. He went away with a sense of deep depression hanging over him; a disagreeable _Ahndung_, as if some thunder-storm lurked in the atmosphere, ready to burst upon and annihilate all around. On that fourth day—the day of Ellen’s return, Sara verily thought once or twice that she was going mad. The horrible strain and tension; the dead, unbroken silence, suspense, waiting; the horrible conviction, which yet she could not prove without this eternity of waiting, that she was being slighted, insulted, betrayed; it formed altogether an ordeal more scorching than any of which her philosophy had hitherto even surmised the existence. At length, in the evening, she heard a step on the stair; the door was opened, and Ellen entered, looking utterly broken-down and exhausted. ‘Ellen!’ she exclaimed, starting up, and fixing dilated eyes upon her; ‘are you ill?’ ‘I’m not very well. Excuse my sitting down, Miss Sara. I can stand no more. I’m not a good traveller, you know, especially by sea.’ ‘Poor old Ellen! I’ll get you some wine. Loose your shawl and your bonnet-strings. Did you get a rest at Wellfield? Did you stay all night?’ ‘Yes, ma’am; I stayed all night. I might have stayed longer if I’d chosen to. Miss Wellfield begged me to remain another day.’