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 Brooke lived . A young girl , so like what Ogden Greene 's wife had been fifteen years before that Theodosia involuntarily exclaimed , `` Phoebe , '' came to the door . Beyond her , Theodosia saw the white-capped nurse . Her voice trembled . `` Does -- does Wesley Brooke live here ? '' she asked . The girl nodded . `` Yes . But he is very ill at present .
Nobody is allowed XXXXX see him . ''
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