Could any one imagine anything so utterly ignorant and childish, and yet so pathetic? She was going to lay down her wifely rights and steal away, friendless and unprotected, into the great lonely world, so that Hugh might come back to his old home in peace. With the rash impulse of despair--of a despair that hoped nothing and feared nothing--she was taking the most terrible step that a young creature could take. She was doing evil that good might come; she was giving up herself in complete renunciation and self-sacrifice in obedience to a miserable and mistaken idea. If she had been older; if her simplicity of character had been less childish, and her worldly knowledge greater, she must surely have hesitated before taking a step that must anger as well as grieve her husband. How would Sir Hugh's haughty spirit brook the disgrace of publicity and the nine-days' wonder of the world when they knew that his wife, Lady Redmond--the successor of all the starched and spotless dames who hung in the old guest-chambers--should so forget herself and him as to tarnish his reputation by an act so improper and incredible. He might forgive his spoiled trip, and all the trouble that awaited him in his empty home; but how will he ever bring himself to forgive that? But Fay, poor mistaken child, thought of none of these things. She only felt that she must go and take her baby with her. There was no time to be lost, and she must make all her plans very quickly. Fay's will was a strong one--there was no fear that she would falter in her purpose; but she never remembered afterward how she carried it out, or from whence came the strange feverish energy that supported her. She was working in a dream, in a nightmare, in a horrible impatience to be gone--to be gone--where? But even this question was answered before many hours were over, for she was to make her poor little plans with the utmost precision. In the quiet evening time, as she paced restlessly through the empty rooms, she thought of a place of refuge where she might rest safely for a little. The moment the carriage had turned the corner, and she could see it no longer, she had taken the letter from the drawer and laid it on the table. Such an innocent, pitiful little letter it was. "Darling Hugh," it began, "do not be angry with me when you come back to-morrow and find your Wee Wifie has gone. What could I do--how could I stay any longer after reading your own words? Indeed, I think I could have borne anything but this. No, this one thing I could not bear--that you should leave your home and country to free yourself and me. "'You must go,' you say; 'of course it must be you.' Darling, do you not know me better than that? "I felt you could not love me, Hugh; but have I ever blamed you in my heart? I was too childish and young for such a man as you. Why did you marry me, dear?--that was a great mistake. But perhaps you saw I liked you.