hink I look trampled on," said she;
and she certainly did not. Pink and white and plump was Myrtle, although
she had, to a discerning eye, an expression which denoted extreme
nervousness.

This morning of spring, when her husband sat doing nothing, she wore
this nervous expression. Her blue eyes looked dark and keen; her
forehead was wrinkled; her rosy mouth was set. Myrtle and Christopher
were not young people; they were a little past middle age, still far
from old in look or ability.

Myrtle had kneaded the bread to rise for the last time before it was put
into the oven, and had put on the meat to boil for dinner, before she
dared address that silent figure which had about it something tragic.
Then she spoke in a small voice. "Christopher," said she.

Christopher made no reply.

"It is a good morning to plow, ain't it?" said Myrtle.

Christopher was silent.

"Jim Mason got over real early; I suppose he thought you'd want to get
at the south field. He's been sitting there at the barn door for 'most
two hours."

Then Christopher rose. Myrtle's anxious face lightened. But to her
wonder her husband went into the front entry and got his best hat. "He
ain't going to wear his best hat to plow," thought Myrtle. For an awful
moment it occurred to her that something had suddenly gone wrong with
her husband's mind. Christopher brushed the hat carefully, adjusted it
at the little looking-glass in the kitchen, and went out.

"Be you going to plow the south field?" Myrtle said, faintly.

"No, I ain't."

"Will you be back to dinner?"

"I don't know--you needn't worry if I'm not." Suddenly Christopher did
an unusual thing for him. He and Myrtle had lived together for years,
and outward manifestations of affection were rare between them. He put
his arm around her and kissed her.

After he had gone, Myrtle watched him out of sight down the road; then
she sat down and wept. Jim Mason came slouching around from his station
at the barn door. He surveyed Myrtle uneasily.

"Mr. Dodd sick?" said he at length.

"Not that I know of," said Myrtle, in a weak quaver. She rose and,
keeping her tear-stained face aloof, lifted the lid off the kettle on
the stove.

"D'ye know am he going to plow to-day?"

"He said he wasn't."

Jim grunted, shifted his quid, and slouched out of the yard.

Meantime Christopher Dodd went straight down the road to the minister's,
the Rev. Stephen Wheaton. When he came to the south field, which he