upon the poor soul.

"She is a good woman," they said. "She means well, and she is a good
housekeeper, but she is no companion for a man like that."

Poor Mrs. Sturtevant was aware of her status in Fairbridge, and she
was not without a steady, plodding ambition of her own. That utterly
commonplace, middle-aged face had some lines of strength. Mrs.
Sturtevant was a member of the women's club of Fairbridge, which was
poetically and cleverly called the Zenith Club.

She wrote, whenever it was her turn to do so, papers upon every
imaginable subject. She balked at nothing whatever. She ranged from
household discussions to the Orient. Then she stood up in the midst
of the women, sunk her double chin in her lace collar, and read her
paper in a voice like the whisper of a blade of grass. Doctor
Sturtevant had a very low voice. His wife had naturally a strident
one, but she essayed to follow him in the matter of voice, as in all
other things. The poor hen bird tried to voice her thoughts like her
mate, and the result was a strange and weird note. However, Mrs.
Sturtevant herself was not aware of the result. When she sat down
after finishing her papers her face was always becomingly flushed
with pleasure.

Nothing, not even pleasure, was becoming to Mrs. Sturtevant. Life
itself was unbecoming to her, and the worst of it was nobody knew it,
and everybody said it was due to Mrs. Sturtevant's lack of taste, and
then they pitied the great doctor anew. It was very fortunate that it
never occurred to Mrs. Sturtevant to pity the doctor on her account,
for she was so fond of him, poor soul, that it might have led to a
tragedy.

The Zenith Club of Fairbridge always met on Friday afternoons. It was
a cherished aim of the Club to uproot foolish superstitions, hence
Friday. It did not seem in the least risky to the ordinary person for
a woman to attend a meeting of the Zenith Club on a Friday, in
preference to any other day in the week; but many a member had a
covert feeling that she was somewhat heroic, especially if the
meeting was held at the home of some distant member on an icy day in
winter, and she was obliged to make use of a livery carriage.

There were in Fairbridge three keepers of livery stables, and
curiously enough, no rivalry between them. All three were natives of
the soil, and somewhat sluggish in nature, like its sticky red shale.
They did not move with much enthusiasm, neither were they to be
easily removed. When