's a hard girl to manage, partly because she has very
bad health. I always think of that--or try to--when she irritates me.
This afternoon I took her out with me, and spoke as kindly as I could;
if she isn't better for it, she surely can't be worse, and in any case
I don't know what else to do. Look, Clara, you and I are going to do
what we can for these children; we're not going to give up the work now
we've begun it. Mustn't all of us who are poor stand together and help
one another? We have to fight against the rich world that's always
crushing us down, down--whether it means to or not. Those people enjoy
their lives. Well, I shall find _my_ enjoyment in defying them to make
me despair? But I can't do without your help. I didn't feel very
cheerful as I sat here a while ago, before you came down; I was almost
afraid to go upstairs, lest the sight of what you were suffering should
be too much for me. Am I to ask a kindness of you and be refused,
Clara?'

It was not the first time that she had experienced the constraining
power of his words when he was moved with passionate earnestness. Her
desire to escape was due to a fear of yielding, of suffering her
egotism to fail before a stronger will.

'Let me go,' she said, whilst he held her arm. 'I feel too ill to talk
longer.'

'Only one word--only one promise--now whilst we are the only ones awake
in the house. We are husband and wife, Clara, and we must be kind to
each other. We are not going to be like the poor creatures who let
their misery degrade them. We are both too proud for that--what? We can
think and express our thoughts; we can speak to each other's minds and
hearts. Don't let us be beaten!'

'What's the good of my promising? I can't keep it. I suffer too much.'

'Promise, and keep the promise for a few weeks, a few days; then I'll
find strength to help you once more. But now it's your turn to help me.
To-morrow begins a new week; the rich world allows us to rest
to-morrow, to be with each other. Shall we make it a quiet, restful,
hopeful day? When they go out in the morning, you shall read to father
and me--read as you know how to, so much better than I can. What? Was
that really a smile?'

'Let me go, Sidney. Oh, I'm tired, I'm tired!'

'And the promise?'

'I'll do my best. It won't last long, but I'll try.'

'Thank you, dear.'

'No,' she replied, despondently. 'It's I that ought to thank you. But I
never shall--never. I only understand you now a