Emerson. Rising hurriedly, and in
some confusion of thought, he went down stairs. His mind, as the
events of the last evening began to adjust themselves, felt an
increasing sense of oppression. How was he to meet Irene? or was he
to meet her again? Had she relented? Had a night of sober reflection
wrought any change? Would she take the step he had warned her as a
fatal one?

With such questions crowding upon him, Hartley Emerson went down
stairs. In passing their chamber-door he saw that it stood wide
open, and that Irene was not there. He descended to the parlors and
to the sitting-room, but did not find her. The bell announced
breakfast; he might find her at the table. No--she was not at her
usual place when the morning meal was served.

"Where is Mrs. Emerson?" he asked of the waiter.

"I have not seen her," was replied.

Mr. Emerson turned away and went up to their chambers. His footsteps
had a desolate, echoing sound to his ears, as he bent his way
thither. He looked through the front and then through the back
chamber, and even called, faintly, the name of his wife. But all was
still as death. Now a small envelope caught his eye, resting on a
casket in which Irene had kept her jewelry. He lifted it, and saw
his name inscribed thereon. The handwriting was not strange. He
broke the seal and read these few words:

"I have gone. IRENE."

The narrow piece of tinted paper on which this was written dropped
from his nerveless fingers, and he stood for some moments still as
if death-stricken, and rigid as stone.

"Well," he said audibly, at length, stepping across the floor, "and
so the end has come!"

He moved to the full length of the chamber and then stood
still--turned, in a little while, and walked slowly back across the
floor--stood still again, his face bent down, his lips closely shut,
his finger-ends gripped into the palms.

"Gone!" He tried to shake himself free of the partial stupor which
had fallen upon him. "Gone!" he repeated. "And so this calamity is
upon us! She has dared the fatal leap! has spoken the irrevocable
decree! God help us both, for both have need of help; I and she, but
she most. God help her to bear the burden she has lifted to her weak
shoulders; she will find it a match for her strength. I shall go
into the world and bury myself in its cares and duties--shall find,
at least, in the long days a compensation in work--earnest,
absorbing, exciting work. But she? Poor Irene! The days a