d discontent; then
some of her old friends, who'd left her in her trouble, found her out
when better times came round, and tried to get her back again. I was
away all day, I didn't know how things were going, and she wasn't open
with me, afraid she said; I was so grave, and hated theatres so. She
got courage finally to tell me that she wasn't happy; that she wanted
to dance again, and asked me if she mightn't. I'd rather have had her
ask me to put her in a fire, for I _did_ hate theatres, and was bred
to; others think they're no harm. I do; and knew it was a bad life for
a girl like mine. It pampers vanity, and vanity is the Devil's help
with such; so I said No, kindly at first, sharp and stern when she
kept on teasing. That roused her spirit. 'I will go!' she said, one
day. 'Not while you are my wife,' I answered back; and neither said
any more, but she gave me a look I didn't think she could, and I
resolved to take her away from temptation before worse came of it.

"I didn't tell her my plan; but I resigned my place, spent a week or
more finding and fixing a little home for her out in the wholesome
country, where she'd be safe from theatres and disreputable friends,
and maybe learn to love me better when she saw how much she was to
me. It was coming summer, and I made things look as home-like and as
pretty as I could. She liked flowers, and I fixed a garden for her;
she was fond of pets, and I got her a bird, a kitten, and a dog to
play with her; she fancied gay colors and tasty little matters, so I
filled her rooms with all the handsome things I could afford, and when
it was done, I was as pleased as any boy, thinking what happy times
we'd have together and how pleased she'd be. Boys, when I went to tell
her and to take her to her little home, she was gone."

"Who with?"

"With those cursed friends of her; a party of them left the city just
then; she was wild to go; she had money now, and all her good looks
back again. They teased and tempted her; I wasn't there to keep her,
and she went, leaving a line behind to tell me that she loved the old
life more than the new; that my house was a prison, and she hoped I'd
let her go in peace. That almost killed me; but I managed to bear it,
for I knew most of the fault was mine; but it was awful bitter to
think I hadn't saved her, after all."

"Oh, Thorn! what did you do?"

"Went straight after her; found her dancing in Philadelphia, with
paint on her cheeks, trinkets on