, and through her she learned that Morris had gone
to Canada with some friends. A sporting expedition. Mrs. Loring
mentioned it casually, of course, supposing that Sophy knew already.
Mrs. Horton and Belinda were still at Nahant. Morry had been _so_
thoughtful! He had come down to say good-by to her before starting for
Canada--but had not stopped the night. Didn't Sophy think he looked
rather thin? She herself was much better, _et cetera, et cetera_.

When Sophy read this letter, she wondered what had passed between Morris
and Belinda during that flying visit to Nahant. He was evidently
"disciplining" her (Sophy). Silence and absence were to bring her to a
right frame of mind.

She began to get desperately restless and impatient. She felt that she
must come to a definite understanding with him. She would have written,
but she did not wish such a letter to follow him from place to place at
the risk of getting lost.

Judge Macon had heard from his "friend in the West." If Mrs. Loring
wished to institute divorce proceedings, the sooner she came to Ontowega
herself the better. So wrote the Western lawyer. He wished to interview
Mrs. Loring personally.

Yet Sophy felt that it would be impossible for her to go until she had
come to a definite understanding with Morris.

All her philosophy, drawn sound and sweet from the sodden husk of
experience, could not keep her from fretting inwardly. Her first
irrepressible joy over the mere idea of freedom died flatly down. She
was unhappy--even very unhappy. Memories stung her day and night. Vain
regret.... It was like the feeling of homesickness for a home that has
been burned down. As she walked and rode, as she sat in her study, with
its perfume of rose-geraniums and cedar wood, her collie at her
feet--these memories came teasing, teasing, like wan-eyed, persistent
beggars when one's purse is empty. Sophy's heart was empty of the coin
of love--but it brimmed with pity--the heavy, leaden currency of pity.

The only real pleasure that she had in these days was from Amaldi's
letters. The first one had been sent from the steamer in which he had
sailed for Italy a few days after she had left Newport. It was rather
short, rather shy. "You must forbear with my English, please," he had
said. "I find it much more hard to write than in speaking." But the
little quaintnesses of construction only made his letter seem more
charming to her. He had not alluded to their last meeting except
i