Ethelyn's Mistake

There was another knock at her door, and a servant handed in a card

bearing Frank Van Buren's name. He was in the office, the waiter said.

Should he show the gentleman up?

Ethie hesitated a moment, and then taking her pencil wrote upon the back

of the card, "I am too busy to see you to-day."

The servant left the room, and Ethelyn went back to where her clothes

were scattered about and the great trunk was standing open. She did not

care to see Frank Van Buren now. He was the direct cause of every sorrow

she had known, and bitter feelings were swelling in her heart in place

of the softer emotions she had once experienced toward him. He was

nothing to her now. Slowly but gradually the flame had been dying out,

until Richard had nothing to dread from him, and he was never nearer to

winning his wife's entire devotion than on that fatal night when, by his

jealousy and rashness, he built so broad a gulf between them.

"It is impossible that we should ever live together again, after all

that has transpired," Ethelyn said, as she stood beside her trunk and

involuntarily folded up a garment and laid it on the bottom.

She had reached a decision, and her face grew whiter, stonier, as she

made haste to act upon it. Every article which Richard had bought was

laid aside and put away in the drawers and bureaus she would never see

again. These were not numerous, for her bridal trousseau had been so

extensive that but few demands had been made upon her husband's purse

for dress, and Ethelyn felt glad that it was so. It did not take long to

put them away, or very long to pack the trunk, and then Ethie sat down

to think "what next?"

Only a few days before a Mr. Bailey, who boarded in the house, and

whose daughter was taking music lessons, had tried to purchase her

piano, telling her that so fine a player as herself ought to have one

with a longer keyboard. Ethie had thought so herself, wishing sometimes

that she had a larger instrument, which was better adapted to the

present style of music, but she could not bring herself to part with

Aunt Barbara's present. Now, however, the case was different. Money she

must have, and as she scorned to take it from the bank, where her check

was always honored, she would sell her piano. It was hers to do with as

she liked, and when Mr. Bailey passed her door at dinner time he was

asked to step in and reconsider the matter. She had changed her mind,

she said. She was willing to sell it now; there was such a superb affair

down at Shumway's Music Room. Had Mr. Bailey seen it?