it last night--"

She had put out a hand toward Clytie and now reached the other from her
side, easing herself to the doorpost against which she leaned and
laughed, weakly, vacantly.

"Some one told you--on the way up?"

"Yes--I knew it, I tell you--that's what makes it so funny and
foolish--why I came, you know--" She had now gained a little in
coherence, and with it came a final doubt. She steadied herself in the
doorway to ask--"When did Bernal come?"

And Clytie, somewhat relieved, became voluble.

"Night before last on the six-fifteen, and me getting home late from the
Epworth meeting--fire out--not a stick of kindling-wood in--only two
cakes in the buttery, neither of them a layer--not a frying-size chicken
on the place--thank goodness he didn't have the appetite he used
to--though in another way it's just downright heartbreaking to see a
person you care for not be a ready eater--but I had some of the plum
jell he used to like, and the good half of an apple-John which I at once
het up--and I sent Mehitty Lykins down for some chops--"

"Where is he?"

There had seemed to be a choking in the question. Clytie regarded her
curiously.

"He was lying down up in the study a while ago--kicking one foot up in