ho fell asleep towards evening, after a
satisfactory meal, cooked and served by his patient helpmate, and eaten
in a desultory manner, as if its speedier consumption would imply too
much appreciation of her culinary kindness.

About midnight he awoke, refreshed in body and mind, and singularly
clear of brain.

His first feeling was one of intense relief, for he felt quite free from
pain, and to-morrow would find him in town, writing and scolding--in
short, himself again. He sat up in bed, and looked round. The gas was
turned low, but on a little table consecrated to his wants stood a
carefully-shaded lamp. By its soft light he discovered his wife, fast
asleep in the low, wicker armchair, whose gay chintz cover contrasted
strangely with her neat dark dress. She had evidently meant to sit up
all night in case he felt worse, but had succumbed from sheer weariness,
still grasping the tiny frock she had been mending. He noticed her
roughened forefinger, but excused it, when he saw the little, even
stitches. Finally, he decided not to disturb her, but, as he settled
down again on the comfortable pillow, he was haunted by the image of her
pale face, and, raising himself on his elbow, looked at her again,
reflectively. She was certainly very white.

He blamed the lamplight at first, but his conscience spoke clearly in
the dim silence, as he recalled her anxiety for him, and her gentle,
restless footsteps on the stairs, and, now that he began to think of it,
she had not eaten all day. He scolded her severely for it in his mind.
Was there not plenty for her if she wanted it?

But that inner self would not be silenced. "How about her idle life?" it
said--"has she had time to eat to-day?"

He could not answer.

She sighed in her sleep, and her lashes were wet as from recent tears.
For the first time he noticed the silver hairs, and the lines about her
eyes, and wondered at them.

[Illustration: "SOBBING OUT YEARS OF LONELINESS."]

And the still, small voice pierced his heart, saying, "Whose fault is
it?"

As he shut his eyes--vainly endeavouring to dismiss the unwelcome
thoughts that came crowding in upon his mind, and threatened to destroy
his belief in the perfect theory he loved to expound--a past day rose
before him. He held her hand, and, looking into her timid, girlish face,
said to himself, "I can mould her to my will." Then she came to him,
alone and friendless, with no one to help hide her inexperience and
nerv