strange, wild country, the large, empty house, the grotesque black
servants, were enough in themselves to depress the spirits and sadden
the heart of the young English lady. Added to these were the deep wounds
her affections had received by the contemptuous desertion of her
husband; there was uncertainty of his fate, and keen anxiety for his
safety; and the slow, wasting soul-sickness of that fruitless hope which
is worse than despair.

Every morning, on rising from her restless bed, she would say to
herself:

"Herman will return or I shall get a letter from him to-day."

Every night, on sinking upon her sleepless pillow, she would sigh:

"Another dreary day has gone and no news of Herman!"

Thus in feverish expectation the days crept into weeks. And with the
extension of time hope grew more strained, tense, and painful.

On Monday morning she would murmur:

"This week I shall surely hear from Herman, if I do not see him."

And every Saturday night she would groan:

"Another miserable week, and no tidings of my husband."

And thus the weeks slowly crept into months.