"I do not understand you, my child," said the abbess, in some uneasiness.
"I have left him as in duty bound. I must write to him to let him know why I left him; but I must not let him know the place of my retreat. I think I heard you say that our father-director was going to Rome this week?"
"Yes, my child."
"Then I will write to the Duke of Hereward for the last time, and bid him an eternal farewell. I will not date my letter from any place; but I will give it to the father-director that he may post it from Rome. You shall read my letter before I close it, dear mother. And now, on these terms, will you let me have writing materials?"
"Certainly, my child. I will send them to you; or rather I will bring them," answered the meek lady-superior, as she arose and left the room.
In a very few minutes she returned with the required articles.
Salome wrote her letter, and then submitted it to the perusal of the abbess, who accorded it her full approval.
"Now, dear mother, if the father-director will take that with him and post it from Rome, all will be over between the Duke of Hereward and myself! We shall be dead to each other," said Salome, as the abbess took the letter and left the room.
Then the invalid sank back, exhausted, in her easy-chair.
In this easy-chair by the window, with her feet upon the footstool, Salome sat day after day of her convalescence; sometimes for hours together, with her hands clasped upon her lap, and her eyes fixed upon the floor, in a sort of stupor; sometimes with her sad gaze turned upon the sear garden, as she murmured to herself: