m, and
laid her head on his knee.

"There's a sole for supper," said she, in a dreamy voice, "and a roast
chicken. And an apple tart. I made it." Maggie had always been absurdly
proud of the things that she could do.

"Clever Maggie."

"I made it because I thought you'd like it."

"Kind Maggie."

"You didn't get any of those things yesterday, or the day before, did
you?"

She was always afraid of giving him what he had had at home. That was one
of the difficulties, she felt, of a double household.

"I forget," he said, a little wearily, "what I had yesterday."

Maggie noticed the weariness and said no more.

He laid his hand on her head and stroked her hair. He could always keep
Maggie quiet by stroking her hair. She shifted herself instantly into
a position easier for his hand. She sat still, only turning to the
caressing hand, now her forehead, now the nape of her neck, now her
delicate ear.

Maggie knew all his moods and ministered to them. She knew to-night that,
if she held her tongue, the peace she had prepared for him would sink
into him and heal him. He was not very tired. She could tell. She could
measure his weariness to a degree by the movements of his hand. When he
was tired she would seize the caressing hand and make it stop. In a few
minutes supper would be ready, and when he had had supper, she knew, it
would be time to talk.

Majendie was grateful for her silence. He was grateful to her for many
things, for her beauty, for her sweetness, for her humility, for her love
which had given so much and asked so little. Maggie had still the modest
charm that gave to her and to her affection the illusion of a perfect
innocence. It had been heightened rather than diminished by their
intimacy.

Somehow she had managed so that, as long as he was with her, shame was
impossible for himself or her. As long as he was with her he was wrapped
in her illusion, the illusion of innocence, of happiness, of all the
unspoken sanctities of home. He knew that whether he was or was not with
her, as long as he loved her no other man would come between him and her;
no other man would cross his threshold and stand upon his hearth. The
house he came to was holy to her. There were times, so deep was the
illusion, when he could have believed that Maggie, sitting there at his
feet, was the pure spouse, the helpmate, and Anne, in the house in Prior
Street, the unwedded, unacknowledged mistress, the distant, the secret,
th