Be it how it may, Cassandra was reading Vanity Fair, which she found in the box of books David had opened so long before. While she read she worked with her fingers, incessantly, at a piece of narrow lace, with a shuttle and very fine thread. This she did so mechanically that she could easily read at the same time by propping the book open on the table before her. For a long time she sat thus, growing more and more interested, until the fire burned low, and she rose to replenish it.
The logs were piled beside the door of the small kitchen David had built for her, and where he had placed the cook stove. She had come up early this morning, because she was sad over his last letter, in which he had told her of his disappointment in having to cancel his passage to America. Hopeful and cheery though the letter was, it had struck dismay to her heart; it was her way when sad, and longing for her husband, to go up to her little cabin—her own home—and think it all over alone and thus regain her equanimity.
Here she read and thought things out by herself. What strange people they were over there! Or perhaps that was so long ago—they might have changed by this time. Surely they must have changed, or David would have said something about it. He never would become a lord, to be one of such people—never—never! It was not at all like David.
A figure appeared in the doorway. "Cassandra! What are you doing here all by yourself?"