Olive felt as if she had dimly foreseen just such a finishing to the tragedy of the poor girl's home bringing-up.

Why could not she have done something to prevent it?
Well,--what shall we do now, and as it is ?--that is the question.
"Has she left no letter,--no explanation of her leaving in this way ?" "Not a word, so far as anybody in the village knows." "Come over to the post-office with me; perhaps we may find a letter.

I think we shall." Olive's sagacity and knowledge of her friend's character had not misled her.

She found a letter from Myrtle to herself, which she opened and read as here follows: MY DEAREST OLIVE:--Think no evil of me for what I have done.

The fire-hang-bird's nest, as Cyprian called it, is empty, and the poor bird is flown.
I can live as I have lived no longer.