“Then go on.”
“Dear John,—I write these few lines to tell you that I find it impossible to remain under the same roof with one who has treated me with such unkindness and cruelty. My cup of sorrow is full to the brim. If I remain here I feel convinced that I shall meet with my death at your hands. For both our sakes it is therefore better that we should part. Never expect to see me again in this world. I leave England to-morrow; you will do much better without me. I do hope and trust that you will see the error of your ways and lead a better life.—Your miserable wife,
“Maria Bristow.”
“That will do; won’t it?” said the girl.
“Oh, dear, yes. My head is in such a whirl that I find it impossible to collect my thoughts. That will do very well, I think,” returned Mrs. Bristow.
She folded up the letter, put it in an envelope, addressed it, and placed it on the shelf where her husband could not fail to see it.
This done she felt greatly relieved.
“Now let us away at once,” cried the girl. “Give me the bag.”
“But where are we going to?”
“To Stanningley. An aunt of mine lives there, a dear old soul. We can remain with her as long as we like, but there’s no occasion for us to stop unless we choose.”