She half-realized that people don't die of love nowadays--that
happened only in the Middle Ages; yet, there in the black stormy
night, strange, horrible fancies overruled the sane convictions of
daytime. It was fearfully significant, Aunt Isabel's sickening so
quickly, so mysteriously. And immediately after Mr. Saunders's
departure. That was exactly what La Beale Isoud always did whenever
Sir Tristram was obliged to leave her; Sir Tristram was continually
having to flee away, a kind of knight of the road, too--to this
battle or that tourney or what-not--"here to-day, gone to-morrow,
never able to stay where his heart would wish."

"Oh! oh!"

At last exhaustion had its way with the taut, quivering little body;
the hot eyelids closed; the burning cheek relaxed on the pillow.
Missy slept.

When she awoke, the sun, which is so blithely indifferent to
sufferings of earth, was high up in a clear sky. The new-washed air
was cool and sparkling as a tonic. Missy's physical being felt more
refreshed than she cared to admit; for her turmoil of spirit had
awakened with her, and she felt her body should be in keeping.

By the time she got dressed and downstairs, Uncle Charlie had
breakfasted and was about to go down town. He said Aunt Isabel was
still in bed, but much better.

"She had no business to drink all those sodas," he said. "Her
stomach was already upset from all that ice-cream and cake the night
before--and the hot weather and all--"