“Divorce him?” returned Mrs. Hamilton resignedly.  “Never!  It is a wife’s duty to submit to whatever cross Providence lays upon her, but divorce seems to me only the resource of abandoned women.”

The Commissioner’s wife nodded her head in majestic approval.  The Commissioner got up abruptly, breakfast being concluded.  He said nothing, but his mental ejaculation was, “Old hag! knows she couldn’t get any one else, nor half such a handsome allowance!”

The day for Mrs. Hamilton’s departure came, and on its morning Hamilton found a note from her on his office desk.  He took it up and opened it with a feeling of repulsion.

     “Dear frank,—­I am leaving by the noon boat for England.  They
     seem to have altered their time of sailing to twelve instead
     of seven P.M.

     “I am sorry my visit here has caused you trouble.  Do not be
     too hard on me.  I am leaving now, and do not intend to worry
     you again.  You must lead your own life until, perhaps, some
     day you wish to return to me.  You will find me ready to
     welcome you.  Good-bye, and forgive any pain I have caused
     you.—­Your affectionate wife,
                                   Jane.”

Hamilton read this note with amazement, and a sense of its falsity swept over him, as if a wind had risen from the paper and struck his face.  But as men too often do, he tried to thrust away his first true instincts, and replace their warning with a lumbering reason.  He sat deep in thought, gazing at the table before him.  If it were true, if she were really going, if she really meant good-bye, what a relief!  But it was impossible, unless, indeed, she had accomplished her plan, and had heard that he had been, or was about to be dismissed from his post.

This seemed to throw a light upon the matter, and with the idea of finding confirmation of this in some of the other letters awaiting him, he started to go through them.  It was a heavy post-bag, and gave him much to attend to.  He went through the letters, but found nothing relative to himself in them, and settled down to his work.  Twelve, one, and two passed, and he looked up at the clock, wondering if she were really gone.  He seemed to have no inclination for lunch, so he worked on without leaving the office, and only rose to clear his desk when it was time to leave for the day.  To-morrow he would learn definitely what passengers the out-going boat had carried.  He would not stay this evening to find out.  He felt ill, listless; he only wanted to be back with Saidie in the restful shade of the palms.

As he rode across the desert that evening an indefinable depression hung over him.  Never since he had found Saidie had that melancholy, once so natural, come back to him.  Her spirit, whether she were absent or present, seemed always with him—­a gay, bright, beautiful vision ever before his eyes, giving him the feeling that he was looking always into sunlight.  But to-night there seemed emptiness, gloom about him.