At six o’clock the early train steamed out of the Saratoga depot, and Editha could not refrain from dropping a few more tears behind her vail as a sad farewell to the friends whom she feared she should never meet again.
Mr. Dalton eyed her closely, but was too well pleased to have got her away so successfully to trouble her with any more words about the matter.
When they arrived in their own city, some time during the afternoon, Mr. Dalton proposed that they go directly to some hotel, since their own house was shut up, and no word had been sent to the servants to prepare for their coming.
Editha assented, and he engaged some cheerful, handsome rooms in a first-class house for them both.
A week went by, and she thought it strange he should say no more about going home; and one day she ventured to suggest their return.
“I believe I like it here better,” he said, glancing around the beautiful room.
“Better than our own spacious home?” Editha cried, astonished.
She knew that their elegant house on —th street had always been the pride of his heart, and the one thing he mourned about at Newport or anywhere else was the want of the comforts and conveniences of their elegantly appointed residence.
After his confession to Earle that he was a ruined man, his house and furniture mortgaged, and the mortgage liable to be foreclosed any day, she had generously proposed clearing it off, and it was now free from debt.
“Yes,” he replied to her surprised remark; “the house seems so large and lonely with only two people in it besides the servants, and really I have never been so comfortable at any hotel before.”