she propped the paper up against the looking-glass.

Then she felt for her dress, and deliberately put it on again, in the
dark, though her hands were so numb with cold that she could scarcely
hook the fastenings. Her teeth chattered as she threw her old shawl
round her.

Stooping down she took off her boots, and pushing the bolt of her own
door back as noiselessly as possible, she crept down the stairs. As she
neared the lower door, the sound of two or three loud breathings caught
her ear.

Her heart contracted with an awful sense of loneliness. Her husband
slept--her children slept--while she--

Then the wave of a strange, a just passion mounted within her. She
stepped into the kitchen, and walking up to her husband's chair, she
stood still a moment looking at him. The lamp was dying away, but she
could still see him plainly. She held herself steadily erect; a frown
was on her brow, a flame in her eyes.

'Well, good-bye, Isaac,' she said, in a low but firm voice.

Then she walked to the back door and opened it, taking no heed of noise;
the latch fell heavily, the hinges creaked.

'Isaac!' she cried, her tones loud and ringing,--_Iaac!_'

There was a sudden sound in the kitchen. She slipped through the door,
and ran along the snow-covered garden.