Her determination was taken at once.  Mr. Balfour accompanied her home, and gave her all the necessary directions for her journey; and that night she packed a single trunk in readiness for it.  In the morning, leaving her house to the care of trusty servants, she rode to the station, while Mr. Belcher was lolling feverishly in his bed, and in an hour was flying northward toward the place that was to be her summer home, and into a region that was destined to be associated with her future life, through changes and revolutions of which she did not dream.

After her thirty-six hours of patient and fatiguing travel the company at Jim Fenton’s hotel, eager for letters from the city, stood on the bank of the river, waiting the arrival of the guide who had gone down for the mail, and such passengers as he might find in waiting.  They saw, as he came in sight, a single lady in the stern of the little boat, deeply veiled, whose name they could not guess.  When she debarked among them, and looked around upon the waiting and curious group, Harry was the first to detect her, and she smothered him with kisses.  Mr. Benedict stood pale and trembling.  Harry impulsively led her toward him, and in a moment they were wrapped in a tender embrace.  None but Mrs. Balfour, of all who were present, understood the relation that existed between the two, thus strangely reunited; but it soon became known, and the little romance added a new charm to the life in the woods.

It would be pleasant to dwell upon the happy days and the pleasant doings of the summer that followed—­the long twilights that Mr. Benedict and Mrs. Dillingham spent upon the water, their review of the events of the past, the humble confessions of the proud lady, the sports and diversions of the wilderness, and the delights of society brought by circumstances into the closest sympathy.  It would be pleasant to remain with Jim and “the little woman,” in their new enterprise and their new house-keeping; but we must return to the city, to follow the fortunes of one who, if less interesting than those we leave behind, is more important in the present stage and ultimate resolution of our little drama.

Soon after Mrs. Dillingham’s departure from the city, Mr. Belcher missed her.  Not content with the position in which he had left his affairs with her, he called at her house three days after her disappearance, and learned that the servants either did not know or would not tell whither she had gone.  In his blind self-conceit, he could not suppose that she had run away from him.  He could not conclude that she had gone to Europe, without a word of her purpose breathed to him.  Still, even that was possible.  She had hidden somewhere, and he should hear from her.  Had he frightened her?  Had he been too precipitate?  Much as he endeavored to explain her sudden disappearance to his own advantage, he was left unsatisfied and uneasy.

A few days passed away, and then he began to doubt.  Thrown back upon himself, deprived of the solace of her society, and released from a certain degree of restraint that she had always exercised upon him, he indulged more freely in drink, and entered with more recklessness upon the excitements of speculation.