But where, and how, and what excuse to give, were the problems she must work out alone. Kenneth had left that morning for Boston, where he was to meet some members of the medical faculty. He might be gone two days, and she could not consult him. She could consult no one, and must act for herself. Providentially, as it seemed to her, she found on her return to the farmhouse a letter from her aunt, saying she should sail in a few days for New York, and wished Connie would see that her house was put in order and be there to receive her. “God has surely opened a way, and I’ll go to-day,” Connie thought, as she read the letter, wondering at her calmness when her plans were finally made. Mrs. Stannard was surprised and sorry, and so was Kitty, when she returned from her drive and stopped for a moment at the farmhouse. “Going before Harry comes? He’ll be here to-night on the late train. I’ve had a telegram,” she said, while Connie bit her lips until the blood nearly came through, the feeling within her was so strong to cry out, “He is a rascal, he is a villain, and that is why I go away.” “You will come back in a few days,” Kitty said, and Connie replied: “Perhaps; I can’t tell. I will write, and now please leave me to rest a little; I am very tired.” She wanted to be alone, and think whether to tell Kenneth or not. The hardest of all was leaving him, for life was very sweet with him, even if he could never be more to her than a friend, and when she was alone she broke down and cried like a little child. “Oh, Kenneth! if it could be, but it never can. I had thought he might be dead, and that some time I should know, but he is alive; he is Kitty’s husband and baby’s father, and they must never know, and it can never be. But I will tell you.” Drying her tears, she began a letter which would tell Kenneth why she was leaving. “Dear Kenneth,” she began, “I have found out something and must go away before your cousin comes. Kitty showed me his photograph, and he is the man who stands between you and me. _He is my husband._” Something like the sharp cut of a knife pierced her heart as she wrote the words and looked at them with a desire to tear them from the paper. “I can’t tell you about it,” she went on. “It is too dreadful to recall. I will only say he bade me good-by the night we were married, and I have never seen him since. He called himself _Harold Meurice_, and that is why I have never identified him with your cousin. My aunt did not like him and must not know who he really is. No one but you must know, for Kitty’s sake and the baby’s. Oh, Kenneth! It cannot be wicked to tell you, as I say good-by forever, that I love you; but don’t try to see me; it can do no good. I must live my life alone. Don’t tell _him_ that you know. Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth! Good-by. “CONNIE.”