e afternoons, and when Bab's in town we can send her over
there--she's no trouble!" Julia turned her face up for a kiss. "Run and
wash your hands, Doctor dear!" said she.

"Yes--and what are you going to do?" Jim asked jealously.

"I'm going to wait for you right here, and we'll go down together," she
said pacifically. Jim took another kiss.

"Happy?" he asked.

Just as he had asked her a thousand times in the past four years. And
always she had answered him, as she did now:

"Happiest woman in the world, Jim!"

The happiest woman in the world! Julia, left alone, still stood dreaming
in the curtained window, her eyes idly following the quiet life of the
sunny street below. A hansom clattered by, an open carriage in which an
old, old couple were taking an airing. Half a square away she could see
the Park, with gray-clad nurses chatting over their racing charges or
the tops of perambulators.

But Julia's thoughts were not with these. A little frown shaded her
eyes, and her mouth was curved by a smile more sad than sweet. The
happiest woman in the world! Yet, as she stood there, she felt an utter
disenchantment with life seize upon her; she felt an overwhelming
weariness in the battle that was not yet over. For Julia knew now that
life to her must be a battle; whatever the years to come might hold for
her, they could not hold more than an occasional heavenly interval of
peace. Peace for Jim, peace for her mother, peace for her children and
for all those whom she loved; but for herself there must be times of an
increasing burden, an increasing weariness, and the gnawing of an
undying fight with utter discouragement. Her secret must never be
anything but a secret; and yet, to Julia, it sometimes seemed that her
only happiness in life would be to shout it to the whole world.

Not always, for there were, of course, serene long stretches of
happiness, confident times in which she was really what she seemed to
be, only beautiful, young, exceptionally fortunate and beloved. But it
was into these very placid intervals that the word or look would enter,
to bring her house of cards crashing about her head once more.

Sometimes, not often, it was a mere casual acquaintance whose chance
remark set the old, old wound to throbbing; or sometimes it was
Barbara's or Miss Toland's praise: "You're so sweet and fine, Ju--if
only we'd all done with our opportunities as you have!" Oftener it was
Jim's voice that consciously or uncons