She turned the handle of the door softly, and opened it.

A light was burning low, but the room was empty.

It was as she thought, he was in his study, where he spent hours sometimes after he came home, reading official papers.

She went up the stairs, at first swiftly, then more slowly, then with almost lagging feet.

Why did she hesitate?
Why should a woman falter in going to her husband--to her own one man of all the world?
Was it not, should it not be, ever the open door between them?
Confidence--confidence--could she not have it, could she not get it now at last?
She had paused; but now she moved on with quicker step, purpose in her face, her eyes softly lighted.
Suddenly she saw on the floor an opened letter.