et
in a stream of moonbeams that rested on wife and child, illumining the
dark corner.

"Gregorio!"

"Yes."

"Have you told me all? Is there nothing else to tell em about our son
and the Jew?"

Gregorio felt he must now speak; it was not possible to keep silence
longer. He was pleased that his wife had begun the conversation, for it
seemed easier to answer questions than to frame them. "I have told you
the whole story. There is no more to tell. It was by accident I found
him in the bazaar, and that devil Amos was bending over him. I could
kill that man."

"What good would that do?"

"Fancy if we had lost the boy! Think of the sacrifices we have made for
him, and they would have been useless."

"Have you made any sacrifices, Gregorio?"

The question was quietly asked, but there was a ring of irony in the
sound of the voice, and Gregorio, to shun his wife's gaze, moved into
the friendly shadows. For some minutes he did not answer. At length,
with a nervous laugh, he replied:

"Of course. We have both made sacrifices, great sacrifices."

"It is odd," pursued Xantippe, gently, as if speaking to herself, "that
you should so flatter yourself. You professed to care for me once; you
only regard me now as a slave to earn money for you."

"It is for our son's sake."

"Is it for our son's sake also that you sit with Madam Marx, that you
drink her wine, that you kiss her?"

Gregorio could not answer. He felt it were useless to try and explain,
though the reason seemed to him clear enough.

"I am glad to have the chance," continued Xantippe, "of talking to
you, for we may now understand each other. I have made the greatest
sacrifice, and because it was for our son's sake I forgave you. I wept,
but, as I wept, I said, 'It is hell for Gregorio too.' But when I looked
from the window this afternoon I knew it was not hell for you. I knew
you did not care what became of me. It was pleasant for you to send
me away to make money while you drank and kissed at the Penny-farthing
Shop. I came suddenly to know that the man had spoken truth."

"What man?" asked Gregorio, huskily.

"The man! The man you bade me find. Because money is not gathered from
the pavements. You know that, and you sent me out to get money. When I
first came back to you I flung the gold at you; it burned my fingers,
and your eagerness for it stung. But I did not quite hate you, though
his words had begun to chime in my ears: 'In my country such a hus