Mrs. Bristow had seated herself in front of a little table—​pens, ink and paper were before her, the last-named being already blotted by her tears.

“What shall I say to him, Bessie?” enquired the wife of her friend.

“How should I know? If it were my case I would not trouble myself to write. Wish him good-bye and say you are going abroad, that’s the best thing to do.”

“Abroad?”

“Certainly. Don’t let him imagine you are going to remain in this country; say you are going abroad to seek your fortune in a strange land, that’s the way to put it.”

“He wont believe it.”

“It doesn’t matter what he believes—​only don’t give him an idea that it is any use his endeavouring to find you out.”

“I wish you would dictate the letter.”

“Very well. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”