her about the neighbors.

When the joy of hearing her voice and of looking
into her dear face once more had passed, his skilled
eyes probed the deeper. He noted with a sinking at
the heart the dark circles under the drooping lids,
the drawn, pallid skin and telltale furrows that had
cut their way deep into her cheeks. Her eyes, too,
had lost their lustre, and her step lacked the spring
and vigor of her old self. The diagnosis alarmed
him. Even the mould of her face, so distinguished,
and to him so beautiful, had undergone a change;
whether through illness, or because of some mental
anguish, he could not decide.

When he pressed his inquiries about Lucy she
answered with a half-stifled sigh that Lucy had decided
to remain abroad for a year longer; adding
that it had been a great relief to her, and that at first
she had thought of remaining with her, but that their
affairs, as he knew, had become so involved at home
that she feared their means of living might be
jeopardized if she did not return at once. The child,
however, would be a comfort to both Martha and
herself until Lucy came. Then she added in a constrained
voice:

"Its mother would not, or could not care for it,
and so I brought it with me."