"Mere law papers. You need not look so terrified." His tone is bitter. "There are certain matters that must be arranged before my departure--matters that concern your welfare and the boy's. Here," laying the papers upon the davenport and spreading them out. "You sign your name here." "But," recoiling, "what is it? What does it all mean?" "It is not your death warrant, I assure you," says he, with a sneer. "Come, sign!" Seeing her still hesitate, he turns upon her savagely. Who shall say what hidden storms of grief and regret lie within that burst of anger? "Do you want your son to live and die a poor man?" says he. "Come! there is yourself to be considered, too! Once I am out of your way, you will be able to begin life again with a light heart; and this," tapping the paper heavily, "will enable you to do it. I make over to you and the boy everything--at least, as nearly everything as will enable me to live." "It should be the other way," says she. "Take everything, and leave us enough on which to live." "Why?" says he, facing round, something in her voice that resembles remorse striking him. "We--shall have each other," says she, faintly. "Having happily got rid of such useless lumber as the father and husband. Well, you will be the happier so," rejoins he with a laugh that hurts him more than it hurts her, though she cannot know that. "'Two is company,' you know, according to the good old proverb, 'three trumpery.' You and he will get on very well without me, no doubt." "It is your arrangement," says she. "If that thought is a salve to your conscience, pray think so," rejoins he. "It isn't worth an argument. We are only wasting time." He hands her the pen; she takes it mechanically, but makes no use of it. "You will at least tell me where you are going?" says she. "Certainly I should, if I only knew myself. To America first, but that is a big direction, and I am afraid the tenderest love letter would not reach me through it. When your friends ask you, say I have gone to the North Pole; it is as likely a destination as another." "But not to know!" says she, lifting her dark eyes to his--dark eyes that seem to glow like fire in her white face. "That would be terrible. It is unfair. You should think--think--" Her voice grows husky and uncertain. She stops abruptly. "Don't be uneasy about that," says he. "I shall take care that my death, when it occurs, is made known to you as soon as possible. Your mind shall be relieved on that score with as little delay as I can manage. The welcome news shall be conveyed to you by a swift messenger." She flings the pen upon the writing table, and turns away. "Insult me to the last if you will!" she says; "but consider your son. He loves you. He will desire news of you from time to time. It is impossible that you can put him out of your life as you have put me." "It appears you can be unjust to the last," says he, flinging her own accusation back at her. "Have I put you out of my life?"