Sylvester lived. Then she gathered up her packages and started home, her knees trembling under her as she walked and a quiver ran through her as if she had faced her worst foe.

Suddenly she stopped in the street and a light broke over her face. There was a rift, just a little rift in the dark clouds over her head. And now she knew that down deep in her heart she had harbored a fear which she would not let be put into thoughts even, that this woman, this enemy of hers, this Mrs. Sylvester, was on the wide ocean. Nay, even that she might be in the same ship with her own husband, Claude. Now that she knew she was not she saw the absurdity of the idea. That a woman who calmly purchased such costly lace would give up her great orbit for the sake of a comparatively poor man was ridiculous. Still, there were women who liked to play with hearts, and who took care never to play the game too long with anyone. And after all, what mattered it whether she played it well or ill, so long as the other player had been willing. Ah! That was the hard part. Her Claude was hers no longer. He had given another woman the light of his eyes, and his wife’s heart was breaking. The tiny gleam of light in the clouds above closed blank and dull once more and she went on her way with a tumult of feelings running riot in her breast.

An idea came to her as she took her way home which startled her with its daring. What if she should try to use this very woman to help against herself? How could she do it? What sort of woman was she? What if she should invite her to one of these little teas for which she was preparing? What if she should? What if she should? Then would she not be going forth to meet Goliath the Great with her little sling and stones?

But the thought could not be got rid of. Thereafter every gown she planned, every fabric she bought or fashioned, every arrangement of the little home was done as under the surveillance of the haughty, beautiful woman with the scornful mouth and unscrupulous eyes.

The days that followed were weary ones, scarce begun ere ended, it seemed to the poor woman who was toiling to achieve a multiplicity of works before a certain time. She worked with breathless energy, never daring to stop and rest lest she should give up and faint beneath the load, or lest the tragedy of her life should wreck her mind.

Letters came from her husband as he went from place to place. A few directions were given her about matters of business, but they always seemed to be written in haste. Her fingers trembled when she opened them and her heart grew colder at each one she read. He complained of not receiving her letters and she set her lips grimly, which ill became the softly rounded lines of mouth and chin. She had written none, nor would she. The questions he asked might be answered when he came. They seemed to be of moment to him, to her they were as trifles. The questions he did not ask were a whole volume of the tragedy she was living. The fact that he did not think or care to ask them made her excuse for not writing; though her heart was sometimes bursting with the words she would send him, still she retrained herself. It was not time yet. She must bide and work and be ready when the moment came.

A goodly array of “soft apparel” was gathering in her wardrobe. Under constant supervision the housemaid was growing silent and dextrous in the matter of waiting upon doors and tables. She wondered in her heart why her mistress had suddenly grown so punctilious about the wearing of caps and aprons and a silver tray for the cards.

There were various changes made in the house. The amount of money spent was not large but the changes were an improvement.