They had driven for almost an hour in utter silence.  Her sister-in-law’s hand lay clasped in hers, but both looked from the carriage windows without speaking, and the return from the drive found them strangely weary and inclined for the quiet of their own rooms.  But Celia Craig could not close her eyes even to feign sleep to herself.

When husband and son returned at evening, she asked nothing of the news from them, but her upturned face lingered a second or two longer as her husband kissed her, and she clung a little to Stephen, who was inclined to be brief with her.

Dinner was a miserable failure in that family, which usually had much to compare, much to impart, much badinage and laughter to distribute.  But the men were weary and uncommunicative; Estcourt Craig went to his club after dinner; Stephen, now possessing a latch-key, disappeared shortly afterward.

Paige and Marye did embroidery and gossipped together under the big crystal chandelier while their mother read aloud to them from “Great Expectations,” which was running serially in Harper’s Weekly.  Later she read in her prayer-book; later still, fully dressed, she lay across the bed in the alcove staring at the darkness and listening for the sound of her husband’s latch-key in the front door,

When it sounded, she sprang up and hastily dried her eyes.

“The children and Ailsa are all abed, Curt.  How late you are!  It was not very wise of you to go out—­being so tired—­” She was hovering near him as though to help his weariness with her small offices; she took his hat, stood looking at him, then stepped nearer, laying both hands on his shoulders, and her face against his.

“I am—­already tired of the—­war,” she sighed.  “Is it ended yet, Curt?”

“There is no more news from Sumter.”

“You will—­love me—­best—­anyway.  Curt—­won’t you?”

“Do you doubt it?”

She only drew a deep, frightened breath.  For within her heart she felt the weight of the new apprehension—­the clairvoyant premonition of a rival that she must prepare to encounter—­a rival that menaced her peace of mind—­a shape, shadowy as yet, but terrible, slowly becoming frightfully denned—­a Thing that might one day wean this man from her—­husband, and son, too—­both perhaps——.

“Curt,” she faltered, “it will all come right in the end.  Say it.  I am afraid.”

“It will come out all right,” he said gently.  They kissed, and she turned to the mirror and silently began preparing for the night.

With the calm notes of church bells floating out across the city, and an April breeze blowing her lace curtains, Ailsa awoke.  Overhead she heard the trample of Stephen’s feet as he moved leisurely about his bedroom.  Outside her windows in the backyard, early sunshine slanted across shrub and grass and white-washed fence; the Sunday quiet was absolute, save for the church bells.