Then she rose and looked me in the eye with courage, almost with resolution. "As I live!" said she. And I knew she would keep her word. The next thing I remember of that night was the sight of her little white, shivering figure looking out at me from the carriage that was to carry her away. The night was cold, and I had tucked her in with as much care as I might have done the evening before, when I still worshiped her, still thought her mine, or at least as much mine as she was any one's. When I had done this and pressed a generous gift into her hand, I stood a minute at the carriage door, in pity of her aspect. She looked so pinched and pale, so dazed and hopeless. Had she been alone--but the companion with whom I had provided her was at her side and my tongue was tied. I turned, and the driver started up the horses. "Philo!" I heard blown by me on the wind. Was it she who called? No, for there was anguish in the cry, the anguish of a woman, and she was only a frightened, disheartened child whom I had sent away to--dance. One month, two months went by, and I began to take up my life. Another, and she would be home for good or ill. I thought that I could live through that other. I had heard of her; not from her--that I did not require; and the stories were all of the same character. She was enjoying life in the great city to which I had sent her; radiant at night, if a little spiritless by day. She was at balls, at concerts and at theaters. She wore jewels and shone with the best; I might be proud of her conquests and the sweetness and dignity with which she bore herself. Thus her friends wrote. But she wrote nothing; I had not required it. Once, some one--a visitor at the house--spoke of having seen her. "She was surrounded with admirers," he had said. "How early our American women ripen!" was his comment. "She held her head like one who has held sway for years; but I thought her a trifle worn; as if pleasure absorbed too much of her sleep. You must look out for her, Judge." And I smiled grimly enough, I own, to think just how I was looking out for her. Then came the thunderbolt. "I am told that no one ever sees her in the day-time; that she is always busy, days. But she does not look as if she took that time for rest. What can your little wife be doing? You ought to hurry up that important opinion of yours and go see." He was right; what was she doing? And why shouldn't I go see? There was no obstacle but my own will; but that is the greatest obstacle a man can have. I remained at Homewood, but the four weeks of our further probation looked like a year.