been through the Valley of the Shadow.  I have thought of many things.  One truth alone is clear—­ that I love you transcendently..  You have touched and awakened me into life.  I walk in a world unknown.

“There is the glory of martyrdom in this message I send you now.  You must not come to me again until I send for you.  I cannot, I will not trust myself or you.  I will keep this love which has come to me undefiled.  It has brought with it to me a new spirit, a spirit with a scorn for things base and mean.  Though it were my last chance in life, I would not see you if you came.  If I thought you would not understand what I feel, I could not love you as I do.

   “I will write to you again, when I see my way more clearly.  I told
   you in the garden before you spoke that I was going away.  Do not
   seek to know my plans.  For the sake of the years to come, obey me.

“Honora.”

She reread the letter, and sealed it.  A new and different exaltation had come to her—­begotten, perhaps, in the act of writing.  A new courage filled her, and now she contemplated the ordeal with a tranquillity that surprised her.  The disorder and chaos of the night were passed, and she welcomed the coming day, and those that were to follow it.  As though the fates were inclined to humour her impatience, there was a telegram on her breakfast tray, dated at New York, and informing her that her husband would be in Newport about the middle of the afternoon.  His western trip was finished a day earlier than he expected.  Honora rang her bell.

“Mathilde, I am going away.”

“Oui, madame.”

“And I should like you to go with me.”

“Oui, madame.”

“It is only fair that you should understand, Mathilde.  I am going away alone.  I am not—­coming back.”

The maid’s eyes filled with sudden tears.

“Oh, madame,” she cried, in a burst of loyalty, “if madame will permit me to stay with her!”

Honora was troubled, but her strange calmness did not forsake her.  The morning was spent in packing, which was a simple matter.  She took only such things as she needed, and left her dinner-gowns hanging in the closets.  A few precious books of her own she chose, but the jewellery her husband had given her was put in boxes and laid upon the dressing-table.  In one of these boxes was her wedding ring.  When luncheon was over, an astonished and perturbed butler packed the Leffingwell silver and sent it off to storage.

There had been but one interruption in Honora’s labours.  A note had arrived—­from him—­a note and a box.  He would obey her!  She had known he would understand, and respect her the more.  What would their love have been, without that respect?  She shuddered to think.  And he sent her this ring, as a token of that love, as undying as the fire in its stones.  Would she wear it, that in her absence she might think of him?  Honora kissed it and slipped it on her finger, where it sparkled.  The letter was beneath her gown, though she knew it by heart.  Chiltern had gone at last:  he could not, he said, remain in Newport and not see her.