aved at the back, she twisted it round the little book, and left it
so that the sparkle of the jewels should be seen distinctly on the
cover. Now was there anything more to be done? She divested herself of
all her valuable ornaments, keeping only her wedding-ring and its
companion circlet of brilliants,--she emptied her purse of all money
save that which was absolutely necessary for her journey--then she put
on her hat, and began to fasten her long cloak slowly, for her fingers
were icy cold and trembled very strangely. Stay,--there was her
husband's portrait,--she might take that, she thought, with a sort of
touching timidity. It was a miniature on ivory--and had been painted
expressly for her,--she placed it inside her dress, against her bosom.

"He has been too good to me," she murmured; "and I have been too
happy,--happier than I deserved to be. Excess of happiness must always
end in sorrow."

She looked dreamily at Philip's empty chair--in fancy she could see his
familiar figure seated there, and she sighed as she thought of the face
she loved so well,--the passion of his eyes,--the tenderness of his
smile. Softly she kissed the place where his head had rested,--then
turned resolutely away.

She was giving up everything, she thought, to another woman,--but
then--that other woman, however incredible it seemed, was the one Philip
loved best,--his own written words were a proof of this. There was no
choice therefore,--his pleasure was her first consideration,--everything
must yield to that, so she imagined,--her own life was nothing, in her
estimation, compared to his desire. Such devotion as hers was of course
absurd--it amounted to weak self-immolation, and would certainly be
accounted as supremely foolish by most women who have husbands, and who,
when they swear to "obey," mean to break the vow at every convenient
opportunity--but Thelma could not alter her strange nature, and, with
her, obedience meant the extreme letter of the law of utter submission.
Leaving the room she had so lately called her own, she passed into the
entrance-hall. Morris was not there, and she did not summon him,--she
opened the street-door for herself, and shutting it quietly behind her,
she stood alone in the cold street, where the fog had now grown so dense
that the lamp-posts were scarcely visible. She walked on for a few paces
rather bewildered and chilled by the piercing bitterness of the
air,--then, rallying her forces, she hailed a