yn would not tell a falsehood for the sake of Washington; so she
made no reply, and Richard drew from her silence any inference he
pleased. He was very wretched those last days, for he could not forget
the look of Ethelyn's eye or the sound of her voice when, as she finally
gave up the contest, she said to him with quivering nostrils and steady
tones, "You may leave me here, Richard, but remember this: not one word
or line will I write to you while you are gone. I mean what I say. I
shall abide by my decision."

It would be dreadful not to hear a word from Ethie during all the dreary
winter, and Richard hoped she would recall her words; but Ethelyn was
too sorely wounded to do that. She must reach Richard somehow, and this
was the way to do it. She did not come downstairs again after it was
settled. She was sick, she said, and kept her room, seeing no one but
Richard and Eunice, who three times a day brought up her nicely cooked
meals and looked curiously at her as she deposited her tray upon the
stand and quietly left the room. Mrs. Markham did not go up at all, for
Ethelyn charged her disappointment directly to her mother-in-law, and
had asked that she be kept away; and so, 'mid passion and tears and
bitterness, the week went by and brought the day when Richard was
to leave.

CHAPTER XIV

THE FIRST DAY OF RICHARD'S ABSENCE

The gray light of a November morning was breaking over the prairies when
Richard stooped down to kiss his wife, who did not think it worth her
while to rise so early even to see him off. She felt that she had been
unjustly dealt with, and up to the very last maintained the same cold,
icy manner so painful to Richard, who would fain have won from her one
smile to cheer him in his absence. But the smile was not given, though
the lips which Richard touched did move a little, and he tried to
believe it was a kiss they meant to give. Only the day before Ethie had
heard from Aunt Van Buren that Frank was to be married at Christmas,
when they would all go on to Washington, where they confidently expected
to meet Ethelyn. With a kind of grim satisfaction Ethelyn showed this to
her husband, hoping to awaken in him some remorse for his cruelty to
her, if, indeed, he was capable of remorse, which she doubted. She did
not know him, for if possible he suffered more than she did, though in a
different way. It hurt him to leave her there alone feeling as she did.
He hated to go without her, carrying only