friend had been out of the country, and she marvelled, thinking of her own old wanderings and her present settled fears, at the spirit with which a person who, whatever she had previously done, had not travelled, could carry off such a flight. The hour had coine at last for this person to name her remedy. What determined it was that as Susan Frush sat there, she took home the fact that the remedy was by this time not to be questioned. It had acted as her own had not, and Amy, to all appearance, had only waited for her to admit it. Well, she was ready when Amy woke—woke immediately to meet her eyes and to show, after a moment, in doing so, a vision of what was in her mind. 'What was it now?' Susan finally said.
'My idea? Is it possible you've not guessed?'
'Oh, you're deeper, much deeper,' Susan sighed, 'than I.'
Amy didn't contradict that—seemed indeed, placidly enough, to take it for truth; but she presently spoke as if the difference, after all, didn't matter now. 'Happily for us to-day—isn't it so?—our case is the same. I can speak, at any rate, for myself. He has left me.'
'Thank God, then!' Miss Susan devoutly murmured. 'For he has left me.'
'Are you sure?'
'Oh, I think so.'
'But how?'
'Well,' said Miss Susan after an hesitation, 'how are you?'
Amy, for a little, matched her pause. 'Ah, that's what I can't tell you. I can only answer for it that he's gone.'
'Then allow me also to prefer not to explain. The sense of relief has for some reason grown strong in me during the last half-hour. That's such a comfort that it's enough, isn't it?'
'Oh, plenty!' The garden-side of their old house, a window or two dimly lighted, massed itself darkly in the summer night, and, with a common impulse, they gave it, across the little lawn, a long, fond look. Yes, they could be sure. 'Plenty!' Amy repeated. 'He's gone.'
