Her hatred and horror of him gave her no peace.

Angry, incensed, at moments almost beside herself with grief and shame and self-contempt, she awaited the letter which he must write--the humble and hopeless effort for pardon which she never, never would answer or even in her own soul grant.
Day after day she brooded, intent, obsessed, fiercely pondering his obliteration.
But no letter came.
No letter came that week, nor Monday, nor at the end of the next week, nor the beginning of the next.
Wrath, at night, had dried her eyes where she lay crying in her humiliation; wrath diminished as the days passed; scorn became less rigid, anger grew tremulous.

Then what was lurking near her pillow lifted a pallid head.

Fear! She waited.

Wrath died, scorn died; there was not enough to dry her tears at night--a deeper, more hopeless humiliation had become the shame of forgiving him, of loneliness without him, of waiting for his letter, heart sick--his letter that never came.
Letter after letter to him she destroyed, and fell ill of the tension, or perhaps of a heavy cold caught in the rain where she had walked for hours, aimlessly, unable to bear her longing and her desolation.
Dr.Benton attended her; the pretty volunteer nurse came to sit with her during convalescence.
The third week in June she was physically well enough to dress and go about the house.