Day's wife was ill.
The doctor of the locality had said more than once that she would not
live many days, but she had gone on living some time, it appeared, since
this had been first said. Day did not now call upon Caius as a medical
man. His wife had taken a fancy to see him because of his remembered
efforts to save her child. Day said apologetically that it was a woman's
whim, but he would be obliged if Caius, at his convenience, would call
upon her. It spoke much for the long peculiarity and dreariness of Day's
domestic life that he evidently believed that this would be a
disagreeable thing for Caius to do.
Day went on to the village. Caius strolled off through the warm woods
and across the hot cliffs to make this visit.
The woman was not in bed. She was dying of consumption. The fever was
flickering in her high-boned cheeks when she opened the door of the
desolate farmhouse. She wore a brown calico gown; her abundant black
hair was not yet streaked with gray. Caius could not see that she looked
much older than she had done upon the evening, years ago, when he had
first had reason to observe her closely. He remembered what Josephine
had told him--that time had stood still with her since that night: it
seemed true in more senses than one. A light of satisfaction showed
itself in her dark face when, after a moment's inspection, she realized
who he was.
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