in the desert. Thank God, Arthur, I have no baby to
suffer with me. Here,--here, it is still very bad. When I think of
papa creeping in and out of his house, I sometimes feel that I must
kill myself. But our going will put an end to all that. It is much
better that we should go. I wish we might start to-morrow." Then she
looked up at him, and saw that the tears were running down his face,
and as she looked she heard his sobs. "Why should you cry, Arthur?
He never cries,--nor do I. When baby died I cried,--but very little.
Tears are vain, foolish things. It has to be borne, and there is
an end of it. When one makes up one's mind to that, one does not
cry. There was a poor woman here the other day whose husband he had
ruined. She wept and bewailed herself till I pitied her almost more
than myself;--but then she had children."

"Oh, Emily!"

"You mustn't call me by my name, because he would be angry. I have to
do, you know, as he tells me. And I do so strive to do it! Through
it all I have an idea that if I do my duty it will be better for me.
There are things, you know, which a husband may tell you to do, but
you cannot do. If he tells me to rob, I am not to rob;--am I? And
now I think of it, you ought not to be here. He would be very much
displeased. But it has been so pleasant once more to see an old
friend."

"I care nothing for his anger," said Arthur moodily.

"Ah, but I do. I have to care for it."

"Leave him! Why don't you leave him?"

"What!"

"You cannot deceive me. You do not try to deceive me. You know that
he is altogether unworthy of you."

"I will hear nothing of the kind, sir."

"How can I speak otherwise when you yourself tell me of your own
misery? Is it possible that I should not know what he is? Would you
have me pretend to think well of him?"

"You can hold your tongue, Arthur."

"No;--I cannot hold my tongue. Have I not held my tongue ever since
you married? And if I am to speak at all, must I not speak now?"

"There is nothing to be said that can serve us at all."

"Then it shall be said without serving. When I bid you leave him, it
is not that you may come to me. Though I love you better than all the
world put together, I do not mean that."

"Oh, Arthur, Arthur!"

"But let your father save you. Only tell him that you will stay with
him, and he will do it. Though I should never see you again, I could
hope to protect you. Of course, I know,--and you know. He is--a
scoundrel!"