Her appearance had improved wonderfully in that interval of little more than a week.

Her eyes had lost their dim weary look, the deathly pallor of her complexion had given place to a faint bloom.

But grateful as she was for her own deliverance, she was full of anxiety about her husband.

Ellen Whitelaw's vague assurances that all would be well, that he would soon be restored to her, were not enough to set her mind at ease.
Ellen had not the courage to tell her the truth.

It was better that Gilbert Fenton should do that, she thought.