“No:  he put me on a car and left me.”

“I suspect it was an after-thought,” said Mrs. Pinckney.  “I had a telegram, directing me to send on his travelling-bag by express:  the rest of his luggage was to be left until further orders.—­Is it possible that she has refused him?” thought Mrs. Pinckney behind her fan.  She was occupying her usual seat by the fire:  Miss Featherstone was in a low chair, with Harry on her lap, the other children hanging about her.  She was telling them a story, but they were not as well entertained as usual.  The young governess was unlike herself to-night, and little touches, dramatic effects and gay inflections of the voice were lacking.

A month passed, and nothing had been heard from Colonel Pinckney.  “He might have written just one line,” said his sister-in-law querulously.  She was in her favorite position, propped up by pillows on the bed, Miss Featherstone at her side waiting to receive orders, for gradually all her old duties had been permitted to slip back into her willing hands.  “Certainly he seemed to enjoy himself when he was here; yet not one line of thanks or remembrance have I received.  I heard,” she said mysteriously, “that Dick was very devoted to Miss Livingstone at Saratoga last summer—­there’s no end to the women who have been in love with him:  perhaps this sudden move has something to do with her.  Nothing but a great emergency can excuse him,” petulantly.

That day, for the first time, the children wearied Miss Featherstone, and she carried them in a body to Adele, saying that she had a violent headache and was going out in the garden for a walk.  As she paced slowly up and down the tears fell over her pale cheeks.  The only window from which she could be seen was Mrs. Pinckney’s, and that lady, she knew, was too much absorbed in her own sensations to give her a thought.  “How I despise myself!” she murmured, “how degraded I am in my own eyes!  Can I ever recover my self-respect?  I’m so miserable that I should like to die because Colonel Pinckney has left the house, and”—­she hesitated—­“because his sister-in-law thinks he was drawn away by Miss Livingstone, Oh!”—­and she groaned and clasped her hands frantically together—­“and all this agony for a man who has never uttered a word of love to me!” Here a remembrance of his whole air and manner rather contradicted this thought.  “Everything wearies me:  I am actually impatient of the children, and when Mrs. Pinckney wails and complains I can scarcely listen with decency.  I want to burst out upon her and say, ’You silly, tiresome woman! you have had your dream of love and your husband; you have still four dear children; you have a home, plenty of money, hosts of friends, besides youth and good looks; while I am—­oh, how desolate!’”

This imaginary attack upon Mrs. Pinckney seemed to comfort her somewhat, for she dried her tears and tried to form a plan of action:  “He evidently didn’t put my advertisement in the paper, for I’ve looked in vain for it.  I must go away where I shall never see Colonel Pinckney again.  I’ll stifle, throttle, this miserable love, and endeavor once more to be enduring and courageous.”