er terms," he
said politely. "If you care to wait, I will go into our library and look
up the laws of those states."

"I wish you would," answered Honora. "I don't think I could bear to spend
three years in such--in such an anomalous condition. And at any rate I
should much rather go West, out of sight, and have it all as quickly over
with as possible."

He bowed, and departed on his quest. And Honora waited, at moments
growing hot at the recollection of her conversation with him. Why--she
asked herself should the law make it so difficult, and subject her to
such humiliation in a course which she felt to be right and natural and
noble? Finally, her thoughts becoming too painful, she got up and looked
out of the window. And far below her, through the mist, she beheld the
burying-ground of Boston's illustrious dead which her cabman had pointed
out to her as he passed. She did not hear the door open as Mr. Wentworth
returned, and she started at the sound of his voice.

"I take it for granted that you are really serious in this matter, Mrs.
Spence," he said.

"Oh!" she exclaimed.

"And that you have thoroughly reflected," he continued imperturbably.
Evidently, in spite of the cold impartiality of the law, a New England
conscience had assailed him in the library. "I cannot take er--the
responsibility of advising you as to a course of action. You have asked
me the laws of certain western states as to divorce I will read them."

An office boy followed him, deposited several volumes on the taule, and
Mr. Wentworth read from them in a voice magnificently judicial.

"There's not much choice, is there?" she faltered, when he had finished.

He smiled.

"As places of residence--" he began, in an attempt to relieve the pathos.

"Oh, I didn't mean that," she cried. "Exile is--is exile." She flushed.
After a few moments of hesitation she named at random a state the laws of
which required a six months' residence. She contemplated him. "I hardly
dare to ask you to give me the name of some reputable lawyer out there."

He had looked for an instant into her eyes. Men of the law are not
invulnerable, particularly at Mr. Wentworth's age, and New England
consciences to the contrary notwithstanding. In spite of himself, her
eyes had made him a partisan: an accomplice, he told himself afterwards.

"Really, Mrs. Spence," he began, and caught another appealing look. He
remembered the husband now, and a lecture on finance in the Grenf