ure and left her again alone.

There was another knock at her door, and a servant handed in a card
bearing Frank Van Buren's name. He was in the office, the waiter said.
Should he show the gentleman up?

Ethie hesitated a moment, and then taking her pencil wrote upon the back
of the card, "I am too busy to see you to-day."

The servant left the room, and Ethelyn went back to where her clothes
were scattered about and the great trunk was standing open. She did not
care to see Frank Van Buren now. He was the direct cause of every sorrow
she had known, and bitter feelings were swelling in her heart in place
of the softer emotions she had once experienced toward him. He was
nothing to her now. Slowly but gradually the flame had been dying out,
until Richard had nothing to dread from him, and he was never nearer to
winning his wife's entire devotion than on that fatal night when, by his
jealousy and rashness, he built so broad a gulf between them.

"It is impossible that we should ever live together again, after all
that has transpired," Ethelyn said, as she stood beside her trunk and
involuntarily folded up a garment and laid it on the bottom.

She had reached a decision, and her face grew whiter, stonier, as she
made haste to act upon it. Every article which Richard had bought was
laid aside and put away in the drawers and bureaus she would never see
again. These were not numerous, for her bridal trousseau had been so
extensive that but few demands had been made upon her husband's purse
for dress, and Ethelyn felt glad that it was so. It did not take long to
put them away, or very long to pack the trunk, and then Ethie sat down
to think "what next?"

Only a few days before a Mr. Bailey, who boarded in the house, and
whose daughter was taking music lessons, had tried to purchase her
piano, telling her that so fine a player as herself ought to have one
with a longer keyboard. Ethie had thought so herself, wishing sometimes
that she had a larger instrument, which was better adapted to the
present style of music, but she could not bring herself to part with
Aunt Barbara's present. Now, however, the case was different. Money she
must have, and as she scorned to take it from the bank, where her check
was always honored, she would sell her piano. It was hers to do with as
she liked, and when Mr. Bailey passed her door at dinner time he was
asked to step in and reconsider the matter. She had changed her mind,
she said. She w