in what you did; but, Richard, you are mistaken.  The very means you took to avert a catastrophe hastened it instead.  The cruel disappointment and terrible homesickness which I endured hastened our baby’s birth, and cost its little life.  Had it lived, Richard, I should have been a better woman from what I am now.  It would have been something for me to love, and oh, my heart did ache so for an object on which to fasten.  I did not love you when I became your wife, but I was learning to do so.  When you came home from Washington I was so glad to see you, and I used to listen for your step when you went to Olney and it was time for you to return.  Just in proportion as I was drawn toward you, Frank fell in my estimation, and I wanted to tell you all about it, and begin anew.  I was going to do so in that letter commenced the night I was taken so ill, and two or three times afterwards I thought I would do it.  Do you remember that night of our return from St. Paul?  I found a letter from Aunt Van Buren, and asked if you would like to hear it.  You seemed so indifferent and amost cross about it, that the good angel left me, and your chance was lost again.  There was something in that letter about Frank and me—­something which would have called forth questions from you, and I meant to explain if you would let me.  Think, Richard.  You will remember the night.  You lay upon the sofa, and I sat down beside you, and smoothed your hair.  I was nearer to loving you then than I ever was before; but you put me off, and the impulse did not come again—­that is, the impulse of confession.  A little more consideration on your part for what you call my airs and high notions would have won me to you, for I am not insensible to your many sterling virtues, and I do believe that you did love me once.  But all that is over now.  I made a great mistake when I came to you, and perhaps I am making a greater one in going from you.  But I think not.  We are better apart, especially after the indignities of last night.  Where I am going it does not matter to you.  Pursuit will be useless, inasmuch as I shall have the start of a week.  Neither do I think you will search for me much.  You will he happier without me, and it is better that I should go.  You will give the accompanying note to Andy.  Dear Andy, my heart aches to its very core when I think of him, and know that his grief for me will be genuine.  I leave you Daisy’s ring.  I am not worthy to keep that, so I give it back.  I wish I could make you free from me entirely, if that should be your wish.  Perhaps some time you will be, and then when I am nothing to you save a sad memory, you will think better of me than you do now.

“Good-by, Richard.  We shall probably never meet again.  Good-by.

“Ethie.”

She did not stop to read what she had written.  There was not time for that, and taking a fresh sheet, she wrote: