retired and lay with my baby in my arms, thinking of what I had done. I thought of my dead mother and her early teachings—of the words she used to love and repeat from the sacred book, and the earnestness with which she used to impress their meaning upon me, and the horror and guilt of the step I was contemplating overwhelmed me. My baby awoke at midnight, and would not be coaxed to sleep again; so, lighting the candle, I lay there and watched her play, and talk, and coo in her charming little way. Every now and then she would stop, look around the room as if she knew she was in a strange place, and then glance up at me with great serious eyes that seemed to question my conduct and reproach my rashness. I thought of my husband, who, though he had been hasty and somewhat cruel in his reproaches, was yet a good, true man. I pictured the despair he would feel when he should return and find his wife and child gone, his home desolate, his name dishonored, and all the horror of my rash act rushed with overwhelming force upon me. I threw myself upon my knees beside my bed and wept out my repentance there, resolving that early morning should find me returning like the prodigal to my home. I acted upon that resolve, first dispatching a note to Louis telling him of my resolution, and entreating him not to come to me again, nor seek to hold any communication with me. “I reached home at noon the next day, but my husband had already discovered my flight. I suppose I might have told him some story—that I had only been to visit a friend in my loneliness, or something of that kind, and he might have accepted it; but I did not; I went to him and confessed the whole, imploring his pardon, and swearing fidelity for the future. I think if he could have had time to think it over and consider the matter, he would have acted differently; but his heart was already too sore to bear more, and his naturally fierce temper swept all reason before it. He took my baby from my arms and bade me ‘go,’ refusing to believe I had not flown _with_ Louis instead of to him. I prayed him to leave my child, my beautiful, blue-eyed, fair-haired Editha, but he told me I was not a fit mother to rear a child, and he refused me even the comfort of a parting caress. He said hard, cruel things to me in that fit of passion—words that broke my heart, seared my brain, and drove me nearly crazed from the sight of every familiar face. I never saw him again—I never heard aught of him for long, long years. After I had recovered somewhat from the first shock of my wild grief I began to reason with myself. I knew I had sinned deeply—I had committed a great wrong in marrying one man when my heart was another’s, even though I believed that other dead, and I had enhanced that wrong a hundred fold in yielding to Louis’ persuasions and consenting to fly with him. True, I had repented before it was too late to turn back, but it was a bitter