t scandalous
remarks. Mrs. Lennox and Helen too should come. That certainly was
generous, and lest his goodness should abate he seized his pen and
wrote:

"DEAR KATY: Your own conscience will tell you whether you are worthy of
being addressed as 'Dear,' but I have called you thus so often that I
cannot bring myself to any other form. Do my words startle you, and will
you be sorry when you read this and find that I am gone, that you are
free from the husband you do not love, the husband whom perhaps you
never loved, though I thought you did? I trusted you once, and now I do
not blame you as much as I ought, for you are young. You are easily
influenced. You are very susceptible to flattery, as was proven by your
career at Saratoga and Newport. I had no suspicion of you then, but now
that I know you better, I see that it was not all childish simplicity
which made you smile so graciously upon those who sought your favor. You
are a coquette, Katy, and the greater one because of that semblance of
artlessness which is the perfection of art. This, however, I might
forgive, were it not for one flagrant act, which, if it is not a proof
of faithlessness, certainly borders upon it. You know to what I refer,
or if you do not, ask your smooth-tongued saint, your companion in the
New Haven train; he will enlighten you; he will not wonder at my going,
and perhaps he will offer you comfort, both religious and otherwise; but
if you ever wish me to return, avoid him as you would shun a deadly
poison. Until I countermand the order I wish you to remain here in this
house, which I bought for you. Helen and your mother both may live with
you, while father will have a general oversight of your affairs; I shall
send him a line to that effect. And now, good-by. I am very calm as I
write this, because I know you have deceived me. Not as I did you with
regard to Genevra, but in a deeper sense, which touches a tenderer point
and makes me willing to brave the talk my sudden departure will create.
No one knows I am going, no one will know until you have waited and
looked in vain for me with the gay young men who to-morrow night-will
join their wives as I hoped yesterday morning to join mine. But that is
over now. I cannot come to you. I am going away, where--it matters not
to you. So farewell.

"Your deceived and disappointed husband."

Had Wilford read this letter over, he might not have left it, but he did
not read it, and in recalling its conte