Elizabeth had not seen him; he had written to her father once, and had promised to write again as soon as he had the slightest news.  He had tried his best to be cheerful, and had sent her a message that endeavored to be hopeful; but she saw that courtesy struggled with despair.  She knew that they need never meet; but if this thing were true—­she could not believe it—­but if it were true, then happiness was over.  Life in a June day has such possibilities of happiness; and that morning her eyes grew so misty that she took a few wrong stitches in her work, and as footsteps drew near the room, perceived this and began to pick them out with nervous haste.  She had not finished, however, when Mrs. Eveleigh came in.  As Elizabeth had expected, her first remark was a comment.

“What! another mistake, my dear?  You know you made one only yesterday, and you can work so beautifully when you give your mind to it.  It is a bad plan to have such a dreamy way with one.  For my part, I should think you would have had enough of doing things in dreams and never knowing what they will end in.  You would better wake up for the rest of your life.”

As Elizabeth had heard the same remark numberless times before, its effect was not startling.  In silence she went on picking out her stitches.

“Why not say you think so, too?  It would be more dutiful in you,” continued Mrs. Eveleigh.

“You take care that I am waked up,” returned Elizabeth.  “You don’t leave one many illusions.”

“I hope not.  What is the use of illusions?”

“Yes, what?”

“Well, Elizabeth, it is not I that have disturbed them this time; you must thank him for that.”

“Him?”

“Yes, he has come.  I have just been leaning over the banisters, and saw him come in.”  Elizabeth did not look dreamy now.  “He did not come forward at all in the modest, charming way of the other one, which you know irresistably wins hearts,” went on Mrs. Eveleigh; “he marched along straight into the parlor and asked to see you, just as if he owned the house and all that was in it.  So he does own somebody in it, I am afraid, poor child.”

The girl’s face was white, her violet eyes looked black and shadowed by heavy lines.

“Is it—?” she began.

“Oh, yes, my dear, it is your husband.  He has come to claim you, no doubt.  If he cannot get the wife he wants, he will have somebody at the head of his table.  And, then, my dear, you know you are an heiress, not a person of no account.”

“Nonsense,” returned the other; “the marriage is not proven.  He may have come with news.”

At this moment a servant brought up Archdale’s card.  On it he had written a line begging to see her.  Elizabeth showed it to her companion.

“See,” she said, “you are mistaken.  Probably we are free, and he wants to tell me of it first,—­first of anyone here, I mean.  That is not arbitrary, nor as you said, at all.”