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Wesley Brooke was almost forgotten. People knew, through correspondents of Greene and Cary, that he had prospered and grown rich. The curious old story had crystallized into accepted history.

A life may go on without ripple or disturbance for so many years that it may seem to have settled into a lasting calm; then a sudden wind of passion may sweep over it and leave behind a wake of tempestuous waters. Such a time came at last to Theodosia.

One day in August Mrs. Emory Merritt dropped in. Emory Merritt’s sister was Ogden Greene’s wife, and the Merritts kept up an occasional correspondence with her. Hence, Cecilia Merritt always knew what was to be known about Wesley Brooke, and always told Theodosia because she had never been expressly forbidden to do so.

Today she looked slightly excited. Secretly she was wondering if the news she brought would have any effect whatever on Theodosia’s impassive calm.

“Do you know, Dosia, Wesley’s real sick? In fact, Phoebe Greene says they have very poor hopes of him. He was kind of ailing all the spring, it seems, and about a month ago he was took down with some kind of slow fever they have out there. Phoebe says they have a hired nurse from the nearest town and a good doctor, but she reckons he won’t get over it. That fever goes awful hard with a man of his years.”

Cecilia Merritt, who was the fastest talker in Heatherton, had got this out before she was brought up by a queer sound, half gasp, half cry, from Theodosia. The latter looked as if someone had struck her a physical blow.

“Mercy, Dosia, you ain’t going to faint! I didn’t suppose you’d care. You never seemed to care.”

“Did you say,” asked Theodosia thickly, “that Wesley was sick–dying?”

“Well, that’s what Phoebe said. She may be mistaken. Dosia Brooke, you’re a queer woman. I never could make you out and I never expect to. I guess only the Lord who made you can translate you.”

Theodosia stood up. The sun was getting low, and the valley beneath them, ripening to harvest, was like a river of gold. She folded up her sewing with a steady hand.

“It’s five o’clock, so I’ll ask you to excuse me, Cecilia. I have a good deal to attend to. You can ask Emory if he’ll drive me to the station in the morning. I’m going out to Wes.”

“Well, for the land’s sake,” said Cecilia Merritt feebly, as she tied on her gingham sunbonnet. She got up and went home in a daze.

Theodosia packed her trunk and worked all night, dry-eyed, with agony and fear tearing at her heart. The iron will had snapped at last, like a broken reed, and fierce self-condemnation seized on her. “I’ve been a wicked woman,” she moaned.

A week from that day Theodosia climbed down from the dusty stage that had brought her from the station over the prairies to the unpretentious little house where Wesley Brooke lived. A young girl, so like what Ogden Greene’s wife had been fifteen years before that Theodosia involuntarily exclaimed, “Phoebe,” came to the door. Beyond her, Theodosia saw the white-capped nurse.

Her voice trembled.

“Does–does Wesley Brooke live here?” she asked.

The girl nodded.

“Yes. But he is very ill at present. Nobody is allowed to see him.”

Theodosia put up her hand and loosened her bonnet strings as if they were choking her. She had been sick with the fear that Wesley would be dead before she got to him. The relief was almost overwhelming.

“But I must see him,” she cried hysterically–she, the calm, easy-going Dosia, hysterical–“I am his wife–and oh, if he had died before I got here!”

The nurse came forward.

“In that case I suppose you must,” she conceded. “But he does not expect you. I must prepare him for the surprise.”

She turned to the door of a room opening off the kitchen, but Theodosia, who had hardly heard her, was before her. She was inside the room before the nurse could prevent her. Then she stood, afraid and trembling, her eyes searching the dim apartment hungrily.