looked any other way!"

Gertrude did not reply.... When Allison noticed her silence, and turned
to look at her, he saw that there was a peculiar light in her eyes, a
red flush over all her face; after a moment's dazed wonder, he realized
that she had misunderstood him--had misunderstood him utterly. His
thoughts had been on the sagging floors, the cheap furniture, the marred
wall-paper, the miserable ugliness and poverty of the house, and
everything in it; but she had seen in his remark only scorn for her
housekeeping, irritation at the room's untidiness. She was very angry.
As Allison realized this, a sudden fierce satisfaction possessed him.
Now at last she would speak out, without pretence, without reserve! He
should hear the truth at last.

[Illustration: "HE HEARD HER MOVING ABOUT, GETTING HIS LUNCHEON"]

But the wrathful look died out of her eyes. She began arranging the
knives and forks, looking suddenly old, and steady, and sober.

"I'm not much of a housekeeper," she said, quietly.

"No, you're not." Allison made his tone as ugly as possible--and waited.
Surely she would turn upon him now, overwhelm him with bitter words!

She made no answer of any kind, however, but turned and hurried into the
kitchen, striking her arm clumsily against one side of the door as she
passed through, as though she had not seen very well. He heard her
moving rapidly about, getting his luncheon. She brought it in with her
head in the air and her lips compressed. The coffee was muddy, the steak
burned, the creamed potatoes scorched--she had been having bad luck.
Allison ate every scrap of what she brought him. He did not dare look at
her--did not dare ask her to forgive him. What right had he to do that?
He lingered on the steps some time before starting for the station,
fussing with his cuff, pulling his hat into shape, breaking off from the
tree at the corner of the house the branch Gertrude had complained was
in her way. His wife usually followed him to the door to tell him
good-by; but to-day she was sweeping the dining-room vigorously, singing
the while a very gay and cheerful tune. It was one to which they had
often danced together in the old days; at the same moment at which he
realized it, the song stopped, as though Gertrude had been silenced by
the same memory that had come to him. He whistled tentatively; but she
did not answer, though she was near enough to hear, as he knew from the
sound of her broom.

Allison wen