here, and put a sofa where the bookcase
had been, and a large chair where the sofa had been, and pushed the
center table into the large chair's place; and then her work was
done--the last she would ever do in that room, or for Richard either.
The last of everything is sad, and Ethie felt a thrill of pain as she
whispered to herself, "It is the last, last time," and then thought of
the outer world which lay all unknown before her. She would not allow
herself to think, lest her courage should give way, and tried, by
dwelling continually upon Richard's cruel words, to steel her heart
against the good impulses which were beginning to suggest that what she
was doing might not, after all, be the wisest course. What would the
world say?--and dear Aunt Barbara, too? How it would wring her heart
when she heard the end to which her darling had come! And Andy--simple,
conscientious, praying Andy--Ethie's heart came up in her throat when
she thought of him and his grief at her desertion.

"I will write to Andy," she said. "I will tell him how thoughts of him
almost deterred me from my purpose," and opening her little writing
desk, which Richard gave her at Christmas, she took up her pen and held
it poised a moment, while something said: "Write to Richard, too. Surely
you can do so much for him. You can tell him the truth at last, and let
him know how he misjudged you."

And so the name which Ethie first wrote down upon the paper was not
"Dear Brother Andy," but simply that of "Richard."

CHAPTER XXII

ETHIE'S LETTERS

"Stafford House, Feb.--,

"Five o'clock in the afternoon.

"RICHARD: I am going away from you forever, and When you recall the
words you spoke to me last night, and the deep humiliation you put upon
me, you will readily understand that I go because we cannot live
together any longer as man and wife. You said things to me, Richard,
which women find hard to forgive, and which they never can forget. I did
not deserve that you should treat me so, for, bad as I may have been in
other respects, I am innocent of the worst thing you alleged against me,
and which seemed to excite you so much. Until I heard it from you, I did
not know Frank Van Buren was within a thousand miles of Camden. The note
from him which I leave with this letter, and which you will remember was
brought to the door by a servant, who said it had been mislaid and
forgotten, will prove that I tell you truly. The other note which you
found, and