Through her mind flashed a single sentence that had often and often set her wondering:  “From him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he seemeth to have.”  She knew its meaning now.  It scorched her inmost soul.  Such an one was she.  No effort had she ever made to possess her husband’s love.  No love had she ever offered to him; duty and submission indeed, but love—­never.  Her heart had been unwarmed, nor had she ever sought to kindle within it the faintest spark.  She had hated him always.  She knew it now.  Or perhaps her feeling for him had been something too cold for even hatred.  If he had made her drink the waters of bitterness, she had given him in return the icy draught of contempt.

There had been a time when his passion for her might have turned to love, but she had let it slide.  She had not wanted love.  Or else—­like so many fevered souls—­she had yearned for the full blossom thereof, neglecting to nourish the parched seed under her feet.

She had committed sacrilege.  That was why Love had come to her at last with a flaming sword, devastating her whole life, depriving her of even that which she had seemed to have.  That was why she now knelt impotent before a locked door.  That was why God was angry.

A long, long time passed.  She did not hear the rain pattering upon the green earth, nor feel the soft breeze on her neck.  She had lost touch with things physical.  She was yet groping in outer darkness.

A hand very softly turned the handle of her door, and a motherly face looked in.

“Why, Anne, dear child, I thought you were asleep!” the deep voice said reproachfully.  “I’ve been listening outside for ages, and you were so quiet!”

She raised her head quickly, and in a moment rose.  Her eyes were deeply shadowed, but they bore no trace of tears.

“I could not sleep,” she said.  “But you mustn’t trouble about me.  I am quite well.  I will dress and come down.”

Mrs. Errol came forward, shaking her head disapprovingly.  “I have a note from Lucas,” she said.  “It arrived a quarter of an hour ago, but there was no answer, so I thought it would be real wicked to wake you up to read it.”

Anne stretched out a hand that shook.  “Please!” she said almost inarticulately.

With the note open in her hand she turned and sat down suddenly as if incapable of standing.  The clumsy, uneven writing danced before her eyes.  One sentence only, but it took her many seconds to read!

“My brother Nap leaves to-night for Arizona.—­Lucas.”

She raised her face with a deep, deep breath.  She felt as if she had not breathed for hours.  Silently, after a moment, she held out the brief message to Mrs. Errol.

“My!” said the latter.  “Well, thank the Lord for that!”

And then very tenderly she laid her hand upon Anne’s shoulder.  “My dearie, would it help you any to speak of him?”

Anne leaned her weary head against her.  “I don’t know,” she said.