not more than half of what she heard was true, and this story she knew was false in the parts pertaining to herself and her desertion of her husband.  She had never heard before that she was suspected of having had an associate in the flight, and her cheeks crimsoned at the idea, while she wondered if Richard had ever thought that of her.  Not at first, she knew, else he had never sought for her so zealously as Aunt Barbara had intimated; but latterly, as he had heard no tidings from her, he might have surmised something of the kind, and that was the secret of the divorce.

“Oh, Richard!  Richard!” she murmured, with her hands pressed tightly over her lips, so as to smother all sound, “I felt so sure of your love.  You were so different from me.  I am punished more than I can bear.”

If she had never known before, Ethie knew now, how much she really loved her husband, and how the hope of eventually returning to him had been the day-star of her life.  Had she heard that he was lying dead in the next room, she would have gone to him at once, and claiming him as hers, would have found some comfort in weeping sadly over him, and kissing his cold lips, but now it did indeed seem more than she could bear.  She did not doubt the story of the divorce, or greatly disbelieve in the other wife.  It was natural that many should seek to win his love now that he had risen so high, and she supposed it was natural that he should wish for another companion.  Perhaps he believed her dead, and Ethie’s heart gave one great throb of joy as she thought of going in to him, and by her bodily presence contradict that belief, and possibly win him from his purpose.  But Ethie was too proud for that, and her next feeling was one of exultation that she had not permitted Aunt Barbara to write, or herself taken any measures for communicating with him.  He should never know how near she had been to him, or guess ever so remotely of the anguish she was enduring, as, only a few feet removed from him, she suffered, in part, all the pain and sorrow she had brought upon him.  Then, as she remembered the new house fitted for the bride, she said: 

“I must see that house.  I must know just what is in store for my rival.  No one knows me in Davenport.  Richard is not at home, and there is no chance for my being recognized.”

With this decision came a vague feeling akin to hope that possibly the story was false—­that after all there was no rival, no divorce.  At all events, she should know for a certainty by going to Davenport; and with every nerve stretched to its utmost tension, Ethie arose from her bed and packed her trunk quietly and quickly, and then going to the office, surprised the clerk with the announcement that she wished to leave on the ten-o’clock train.  She had received news which made her going so suddenly imperative, she said to him, and to the physician, whom she called upon next, and whose strong arguments against her leaving that night almost overcame her.  But Ethie’s will conquered at last, and when the train from the East came in she stood upon the platform at the station, her white face closely veiled, and her heart throbbing with the vague doubts which began to assail her as to whether she were really doing a wise and prudent thing in going out alone and unprotected to the home she had no right to enter, and where she was not wanted.