the brightness of her world. She was filled, also, with
a growing uneasiness by reason of Mart's change of attitude towards
herself. In the excitement of his home-coming he seemed about to regain
a large part of his former health and spirits. His eyes brightened, his
smile became more frequent, the appealing lines of his brow smoothed
out, and save for an occasional shortening of the breath his condition
appeared to be improving.

This access of vitality was apparent to Bertha, and should have brought
joy to her as to him; but it did not, for with returning vitality his
attitude towards her became less of the invalid and more of the lover.
He said nothing directly--at first--but she was able to interpret all
too well the meaning of his jocular remarks and his wistful glances.
Once he called her attention to the returning strength in his arm. "The
ould man is not dead yet," he exulted, lifting his disabled arm and
clinching his fist. "I feel younger than at any time since me accident,"
and as he spoke she perceived something of the lion in the light of his
eyes.

One night as she was passing his chair he reached for her and caught her
and drew her down upon his knee. "Sit ye down a wink. Ye're always on
the move like a flibberty-bidget."

She struggled free of his embrace, her face clouded with alarm and
anger. "Don't be a fool," she said, harshly.

He released her, saying, humbly: "Don't be angry, darlin', 'tis foolish
of me, an ould crippled wolf, to be thinking of matin' with a fawn like
y'rself. I don't blame ye. Go your ways."

She went to her room, with his voice--so humbly penitent and
resigned--lingering in her ears, trembling with the weight of the burden
which his amorous mood had laid upon her.

She resented his action the more because life at the moment was so full
of joy. Each morning was filled with pleasant duties, and each afternoon
they drove to the office to discuss the mines with Ben, and in the
evening he called to sit for an hour or two on the porch, smoking,
talking, till Mart grew sleepy and yawned. These meetings were
deliciously, calmly delightful, for Mrs. Gilman or Miss Franklin was
always present, and, though the talk was general, Ben talked for her
ears at times, but always impersonally, and she honored him for his
delicacy, his reserve, his respect for her position as a married woman,
recognizing the care with which he avoided everything which might
embarrass her.

And now, by forc