I did n't suppose you 'd care . You never seemed to care . '' `` Did you say , '' asked Theodosia thickly , `` that Wesley was sick -- dying ? '' `` Well , that 's what Phoebe said . She may be mistaken . Dosia Brooke , you 're a queer woman . I never could make you out and I never expect to . I guess only the Lord who made you can translate you . '' Theodosia stood up . The sun was getting low , and the valley beneath them , ripening to harvest , was like a river of gold . She folded up her sewing with a steady hand . `` It 's five o'clock , so I 'll ask you to excuse me , Cecilia . I have a good deal to attend to . You can ask Emory if he 'll drive me to the station in the morning . I 'm going out to Wes . '' `` Well , for the land 's sake , '' said Cecilia Merritt feebly , as she tied on her gingham sunbonnet . She got up and went home in a daze . Theodosia packed her trunk and worked all night , dry-eyed , with agony and fear tearing at her heart . The iron will had snapped at last , like a broken reed , and fierce self-condemnation seized on her . `` I 've been a wicked woman , '' she moaned .
A week from that day Theodosia climbed down from the dusty stage that had brought her from the station over the prairies to the unpretentious little house where Wesley XXXXX lived .
Brooke Merritt Theodosia Wes Wesley daze morning night o'clock self-condemnation