" She did not know
that failing health was really the cause of this lapse of self-
confidence, this growing self-depreciation, this languor for which she
could not account. She found that she could not toss the child and
frolic with it as she had done; she was conscious that within a month
there had stolen upon her the desire to be much alone, to avoid noises
and bustle--it irritated her. She found herself thinking more and more
of her father, her father to whom she had never written one line since
she had left the North. She had had good reasons for not writing--
writing could do no good whatever, particularly to a man who could not
read, and who would not have understood her new life if he had read. Yet
now she seemed not to know why she had not written, and to blame herself
for neglect and forgetfulness. It weighed on her. Why had she ever been
taken from the place of tamarack-trees and the sweeping prairie grass?
No, no, she was not, after all, fit for this life. She had been
mistaken, and Richard had been mistaken--Richard, who was so wise.
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