addressed to him. As he read he gazed about to assure himself that it
was not a horrible dream, half expecting his wife to gleefully spring
into his arms from some hiding-place; but all was silent save his own
moans of pain.

Vida had gone! Had "fled to her mother for protection from a tyrant."
So the letter ran; it was in her own graceful hand; her name was
affixed. It was no cruel joke. She said, moreover, that it was
evident that their tastes were not congenial; it was out of the
question for her to be tied down to the sort of life he expected of
her; that she had borne reflections on her conduct that she had not
tolerated from any other being! Tyranny was of all things most
hateful to her; the climax was now reached when he ventured "_to
command_."

"She recognised no such right. She never would; she would not be
called to account every time she stepped over a forbidden imaginary
line; it was plain they had been mistaken in each other, and
disappointed; they did not add to each other's happiness, as
appeared from the gloom enveloping him day and night; the last months
were months of discord; she felt neglected; he was poring over books
or seeking other society in an interminable round of calls; plainly
what he needed in a wife was a sort of co-pastor; it was not too late
to secure such a person, since the law granted divorce for wilful
desertion."

With this last sentence the letter closed. Not a word betrayed the
faintest regret at severing so solemn a bond. He searched it over and
over to see if in some corner he could not find one tender word for
him, a word that would reveal down deep in her heart the light of her