"He'll drink himself to death in six months; and then--!" Well; at
least part of the programme was carried out: he drank. But he did not
die. No; he went on living, living, living! That first year they were
constantly asking each other for news of him: "Have you heard
anything?" "Yes; an awful debauch. Oh, he can't stand it. He'll be in
his grave before Christmas." But Christmas came, and Frederick was
still living. Then it was "before spring"--"before fall"--"before
Christmas" again. And yet he went on living. And she had gone on
living, too. At first, joyously, except when she brooded over the
baby's death; then impatiently--for Frederick would not die! Then,
gradually, gradually, with weary acceptance of the situation. Only in
the last two or three years had she begun to live anxiously, as she
realized how easily Lloyd was accepting Frederick's lease of life.
Less and less often he inquired whether Mr. Raynor had mentioned
Frederick's health in the letter that came with her quarterly
statement. By and by, it was she, not Lloyd, who asked, "Have you
heard anything of Frederick?"

The house was quite silent now, except when Sarah trudged up the back
stairs with the clanking silver-basket on her arm. The lamp on the
corner of her bureau flickered, and a spark wavered up the chimney;
the oil was gone and the wick charring. She got up and blew the
smouldering flame out; then sat down again in the darkness.... Yes;
Lloyd was no longer vitally interested in Frederick's health. She must
make up her mind to that. But after all, what difference did that
make? He loved her just the same, only men are not like women, they
don't keep on saying so,--for that matter, she herself did not say so
as often as in those first days. But of course she loved him just as
much. She had grown a little dull, she supposed. No; she would not
distrust him. She was sure he loved her. Yet behind her most emphatic