five minutes to
seven. Eight o'clock was her dinner-hour, and thinking of this, she
suddenly rang the bell. Morris immediately answered it.

"I shall not dine at home," she said in her usual gentle voice; "I am
going to see some friend this evening. I may not be back till--till
late."

"Very well, my lady," and Morris retired without seeing anything
remarkable in his mistress's announcement. Thelma drew a long breath of
relief as he disappeared, and, steadying her nerves by a strong effort,
passed into her own boudoir,--the little sanctum specially endeared to
her by Philip's frequent presence there. How cosy and comfortable a
home-nest it looked!--a small fire glowed warmly in the grate, and
Britta, whose duty it was to keep this particular room in order, had lit
the lamp,--a rosy globe supported by a laughing cupid,--and had drawn
the velvet curtains close at the window to keep out the fog and chilly
air--there were fragrant flowers on the table,--Thelma's own favorite
lounge was drawn up to the fender in readiness for her,--opposite to it
stood the deep, old-fashioned easy chair in which Philip always sat. She
looked round upon all these familiar things with a dreary sense of
strangeness and desolation, and the curves of her sweet mouth trembled a
little and drooped piteously. But her resolve was taken, and she did not
hesitate or weep. She sat down to her desk and wrote a few brief lines
to her father--this letter she addressed and stamped ready for posting.

Then for a while she remained apparently lost in painful musings,
playing with the pen she held, and uncertain what to do. Presently she
drew a sheet of note-paper toward her, and began, "My darling boy." As
these words appeared under her hand on the white page, her forced calm
nearly gave way,--a low cry of intense agony escaped from her lips, and,
dropping the pen, she rose and paced the room restlessly, one hand
pressed against her heart as though that action could still its rapid
beatings. Once more she essayed the hard task she had set herself to
fulfill--the task of bidding farewell to the husband in whom her life
was centred. Piteous, passionate words came quickly from her overcharged
and almost breaking heart--words, tender, touching,--full of love, and
absolutely free from all reproach. Little did she guess as she wrote
that parting letter, what desperate misery it would cause to the
receiver!--

When she had finished it, she felt quieted--even mo