''Do you prefer to talk with servants, Maud, than with me?'' he says. He is peevish, since Richard left us.
He chooses a book of little punishments for me to read from, after the meal: the steady recitation of cruelty makes me calmer. But when I go up to my chill and silent rooms, I grow fretful again; and after Margaret has undressed me and put me into my bed, I rise, and walk—stand now at the fire, now at the door, now at the window, looking out for the light of the trap. Then I see it. It shows feebly in the fog—seems to glow, rather than to shine—and to flash, with the motion of the horse and the passage of the trap behind the trees, like a thing of warning. I watch it come, my hand at my heart. It draws close—slows, narrows, fades—I see beyond it, then, the horse, the cart, William, a vaguer figure. They drive to the rear of the house, and I run to Agnes''s room—Susan''s room, it will be now—and stand at the window there; and finally see her.
She is lifting her head, gazing up at the stables, the clock. William jumps from his seat and helps her to the ground. She