e, my dear."

"You are mistaken, Jane. Mother and home are the soul of the world; they
will never pass. I read the other day that Horace Walpole thanked God
that he came into the world when there were still such terms as
'afternoon' and 'evening.' I hope I may say I came when the ideas of
'home' and children' were still the moving principles of human society;
and I swear that I will do nothing to sink them below the verge. God
forbid!"

"John, I am not concerned about principles. My care is not for anything
but what concerns ourselves and our home. I tell you plainly I do not
desire children. I will not have any more. I will do all I can to make
you honorable and happy. I will order and see to your house, servants,
and expenditures. I will love and cherish and bring up properly our dear
child. I will make you socially respected. I will read or write, or play
or sing to your desire. I will above all other things love and obey you.
Is not this sufficient, John?"

"No, I want children. They were an understood consequence of our
marriage. I feel ashamed among my fellows----"

"Yes, I suppose you would like to imitate Squire Atherton and take two
pews in church for your sons and daughters and walk up the aisle every
Sunday before them. It is comical to watch them. And poor Mrs. Atherton!
Once she was the beauty of the West Riding! Now she is a faded, draggled
skeleton, carelessly and unfashionably dressed, following meekly the
long procession of her giggling girls and sulky boys. Upon my word,
John, it is enough to cure any girl of the marriage fever to see Squire
Atherton and his friend Ashby and Roper of Roper's Mills and Coates of
Coates Mills and the like. And if it was an understood thing in our
marriage that I should suffer and perhaps die in order that a new lot of
cotton-spinners be born, why was it not so stated in the bond?"

"My dear Jane, the trial to which you propose to subject me, I cannot
discuss tonight. You have said all I can bear at present. It has been a
long, long, hard day. God help me! Good night!" Then he bowed his head
and slowly left the room.

Jane was astonished, but his white face, the sad, yonderly look in his
eyes, and the way in which he bit his lower lip went like a knife to her
heart.

She sat still, speechless, motionless. She had not expected either his
prompt denial of her position or its powerful effect on him physically.
Never before had she seen John show any symptoms of illne