After paying and dismissing her carriage, she purchased a newspaper at a stand; then, going into the ladies’ room she sat down and began to peruse the various columns of advertisements. She soon found what she wanted—an advertisement of a respectable lodging-house for working girls. She had resolved to hide herself in the city for a while, until she could rest and recruit a little from the weakness which her recent unhappiness and excitement had occasioned her. She engaged a second carriage, had her trunk transferred from the baggage-room, and was then driven to the street and number where the lodging-house was. Here she registered her name as S. Howland, engaged the only single room to be had, and paid a full month’s rent in advance. It was at one end of a long hall, small, but clean and comfortably furnished. There was only one window in it, and this overlooked a narrow passage between the lodging-house and another empty building, which seemed so near that she believed she could reach out and touch it if she tried. She did not mind its location, or that it was a gloomy and unpleasant place in which to live; she scarcely gave a thought to her surroundings, so sore was her heart, so weary her body and mind. All that she cared for was to be by herself, to rest until she could gain strength to look her fate calmly in the face and plan what to do. She went directly to bed, and, utterly exhausted with grief and weariness, fell at once into a profound slumber. For several days she could do little but sleep and rest, for tired nature would assert its claims, and the sense of security which she experienced in her little room was conducive to this. She paid one of the chambermaids to bring her, from a neighboring restaurant, such simple food as she knew she required and must eat, and did not go out at all herself, nor interest herself in her neighbors or anything going on about her. She was broken-hearted. She could not be reconciled to the terrible blight that had fallen upon her life—she could not be reconciled to the fact that her husband had refused to accept her explanations, in the letter of confession which she had written him, and should have so curtly commanded her to leave his home. Had she not been so crushed and confused by Madame Winthrop’s and Evelyn’s accusations and arguments—had she not been so morbidly sensitive, she would have reasoned better; she would have known that a man of Dr. Winthrop’s stamp would have explained himself more fully in a letter.