And so I hoped and waited for her and Guy, and wondered I did not hear
from him, and felt so glad and happy when I received the telegram,
"Shall be home to-night." It was a bright day in May, but the evening
set in cool, with a feeling of rain in the air, and I had a fire kindled
in the parlor and in Daisy's room, for I remembered how she used to
crouch on the rug before the grate and watch the blaze floating up the
chimney with all the eagerness of a child. Then, although it hurt me
sorely, I went to Simpson, who bought our carriage, and asked that it
might be sent to the station so that Daisy should not feel the
difference at once. And Jerry, our old coachman, went with it and waited
there just as Julia and I waited at home, for Julia had promised to stay
a few weeks and see what Daisy was like.

The train was late that night, an hour behind time, and the spring rain
was falling outside and the gas was lighted within when I heard the
sound of wheels stopping at the door and went to meet my brother. But
only my brother. There was no Daisy with him. He came in alone, with
such an awful look on his white face as made me cry out with alarm.

"What it is, Guy, and where is Daisy?" I asked, as he staggered against
the banister, where he leaned heavily.

He did not answer my question, but said, "Take me to my room," in a
voice I would never have known for Guy's. I took him to his room, made
him lie down, and brought him a glass of wine, and then, when he was
strong enough to tell it, listened to the shameful story, and felt that
henceforth and forever I must and would hate the woman who had wounded
my Guy so cruelly.