o go back in the dark and the rain and the thunder? Then
I will, but I must tell you first what I came for, and you will tell
Guy. He gave me ten thousand dollars when we first were married; settled
it on me, they called it, and father was one of the trustees and kept
the paper for me till I was of age. So much I understand, but not why I
can't give it back to Guy, for father says I can't. I never dreamed it
was mine after the--the--the divorce."

She spoke the word softly and hesitatingly, while a faint flush showed
on her otherwise white face.

"If I am not Guy's wife, as they say, then I have no right to his money,
and I told father so, and said I'd give it back, and he said I couldn't,
and I said I could and would, and I wrote to Guy about it, told him I
was not so mean, and father kept the letter, and I did not know what I
should do next till I was invited to visit Aunt Merriman in Detroit.
Then I took the paper--the settlement, you know, from the box where
father kept it and put it in my pocket; here it is--see," and she drew
out a document and held it toward me while she continued: "I started for
Detroit under the care of a friend who stopped a few miles the other
side, so you see I was free to come here if I liked, and I did so, for I
wanted to see Guy and give him the paper, and tell him I'd never take a
cent of his money. I am sorry he is sick. I did not think he'd care so
much, and I don't know what to do with the paper unless I tear it up. I
believe I'd better; then, surely, it will be out of the way."

And before I could speak or think she tore the document in two, and then
across again, and scattered the four pieces on the floor.

"Tell Guy, please," she continued, "what I have done, and that I never
meant to take it, after--after--that--you know--and that I did not care
for money only as father taught me I must have it, and that I am sorry
he ever saw me, and I never really wanted to be married and can't be his
wife again till I do."

She spoke as if Guy would take her back of course if she only signified
her wish to come, and this kept me angry, though I was beginning to
soften a little with this unexpected phase of her character, and I might
have suffered her to stay till morning if she had signified a wish to
do so, but she did not.

"I suppose I must go now if I would catch the train," she said, moving
toward the door. "Good-by, Fanny. I am sorry I ever troubled you."

She held her little white