Once inside, she drew forth a large trunk from the closet, and set to
work with querulous and fretful haste to pack her wardrobe. She tore her
best dress in taking it from the hook on which it hung: she scratched
her soft hands twice with an ambushed pin. All the while, she kept up an
indignant commentary on the events of the past few moments. She said to
herself she saw it all. Tretherick had sent for this child of his first
wife--this child of whose existence he had never seemed to care--just
to insult her, to fill her place. Doubtless the first wife herself would
follow soon, or perhaps there would be a third. Red hair, not auburn,
but RED,--of course the child, this Caroline, looked like its mother,
and, if so, she was any thing but pretty. Or the whole thing had been
prepared: this red-haired child, the image of its mother, had been
kept at a convenient distance at Sacramento, ready to be sent for when
needed. She remembered his occasional visits there on--business, as he
said. Perhaps the mother already was there; but no, she had gone East.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Tretherick, in her then state of mind, preferred to
dwell upon the fact that she might be there. She was dimly conscious,
also, of a certain satisfaction in exaggerating her feelings. Surely
no woman had ever been so shamefully abused. In fancy, she sketched
a picture of herself sitting alone and deserted, at sunset, among
the fallen columns of a ruined temple, in a melancholy yet graceful
attitude, while her husband drove rapidly away in a luxurious
coach-and-four, with a red-haired woman at his side. Sitting upon
the trunk she had just packed, she partly composed a lugubrious poem,
describing her sufferings, as, wandering alone, and poorly clad, she
came upon her husband and "another" flaunting in silks and diamonds.
She pictured herself dying of consumption, brought on by sorrow,--a
beautiful wreck, yet still fascinating, gazed upon adoringly by the
editor of "The Avalanche," and Col. Starbottle. And where was Col.
Starbottle all this while? Why didn't he come? He, at least, understood
her. He--she laughed the reckless, light laugh of a few moments before;
and then her face suddenly grew grave, as it had not a few moments
before.

What was that little red-haired imp doing all this time? Why was she so
quiet? She opened the door noiselessly, and listened. She fancied
that she heard, above the multitudinous small noises and creakings
and warpings of the v