had any of the hardness or
the worry. I wished it to be so, my darling boy--and I was glad."

Then Ronnie gently put his wife out of his arms, and took her sweet face
between his hands, looking long into her eyes, before he made reply. And
Helen, steadfastly returning his gaze, saw a look growing in her
husband's face, such as she had never yet seen there, and knew, even
before he began to speak, what he was going to say; and her protective
love, longing as ever to shield him from pain, cried out: "Oh, must I
let him realise that?"

But, at last, through the guidance of wiser Hands than hers, the matter
had passed beyond Helen's control.

"My wife," said Ronnie slowly, "when I called it 'the Upas tree indeed,'
I did not mean the _one_ act of going off in ignorance and leaving you
alone during the whole of that time, when any man who cared at all would
wish to be at hand, to bear, and share, and guard. I do not brand that
as selfish; because you purposely withheld from me the truth, and bid
me go. But _why_ did you withhold it? Why, after the first shock, did
you feel glad to face the prospect of bearing it alone; glad I should be
away? Ah, here we find the very roots of the Upas tree! Was it not
because, during the whole of our married life, I have been cheerfully,
complacently selfish? I have calmly accepted as the rule of the home,
that I should hear of no worries which you could keep from me, tread
upon no thorns which you could clear out of my path, bear no burdens
which your loving hands could lift and carry out of sight. Your
interests, your pleasures, your friends, your pursuits, all have been
swept on one side, if they seemed in the smallest degree likely to
interfere with my work, my desires, my career. You have lived for
me--absolutely. I have lived for myself. True, we have loved each other
tenderly; we have been immensely happy. But, all the while, the shadow
of the Upas tree was there. My very love was selfish! It was sheer joy
to love you, because you are so sweetly, so altogether, lovable. But
when did I--because of my love for you--do one single thing at any cost
to self? I was utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish! You knew
this. You knew I hated pain, or worry, or anything which put my
comfortable life out of gear. So you gladly let me go, leaving you to
bear it all alone. You knew that, had you told me, I should have given
up my book and stayed with you; because my self-love would have been