this undercurrent of annoyance and distress added continually to the
change in her face: gradually its expression grew more grave; she smiled
less frequently; had fits of abstraction and reverie, which she had
never been known to have before.

In a vague way, Doctor Eben observed these, and wondered what Hetty was
thinking about; but he never asked. Often they drove for a whole day
together, without a dozen words being spoken; but the doctor was buried
in meditations upon his patients, and did not dislike the silence. Hetty
did not realize that the change here was more in her than in him: in the
old days it had been she who talked, not the doctor; now that she was
silent, he went on with his trains of thought undisturbed, and was
as content as before, for she was by his side. He felt her presence
perpetually, even when he gave no sign of doing so.

Many months went by in this way, a summer, a winter, part of a spring,
and Hetty's forty-fifth birthday came, and found her a seriously unhappy
woman. Yet, strange to say, nobody dreamed of it. So unchanged was the
external current of her life: such magnificent self-control had she, and
such absolute disinterestedness. Little Raby was the only one who ever
had a consciousness that things were not right. He was Hetty's closest
comrade and companion now. All the hours that she did not spend driving
with the doctor (and she drove with him less now than had been her
custom) she spent with Raby. They took long rambles together, and long
rides, Raby being already an accomplished and fearless little rider. By
the subtle instinct of a loving child, Raby knew that "Aunt Hetty" was
changed. A certain something was gone out of the delight they used to
take together. Once, as they were riding, he exclaimed:

"Aunt Hetty, you haven't spoken for ever so long! What's the matter? you