en
years earlier in her life as it was then. She timed the walk to her
purpose; and when Mr. Belcher parted with her, he went back leisurely to
his great house, more discontented with his wife than he had ever been.
To find such beauty, such helpfulness, such sympathy, charity,
forbearance, and sensitiveness, all combined in one woman, and that
woman kind and confidential toward him, brought back to him the days of
his youth, in the excitement of a sentiment which he had supposed was
lost beyond recall.

He crossed the street on arriving at his house, and took an evening
survey of his grand mansion, whose lights were still flaming through the
windows. The passengers jostled him as he looked up at his dwelling, his
thoughts wandering back to the woman with whom he had so recently
parted.

He knew that his heart was dead toward the woman who awaited his return.
He felt that it was almost painfully alive toward the one he had left
behind him, and it was with the embarrassment of conscious guilt that
he rang the bell at his own door, and stiffened himself to meet the
honest woman who had borne his children. Even the graceless touch of an
intriguing woman's power--even the excitement of something like love
toward one who was unworthy of his love--had softened him, so that his
conscience could move again. He felt that his eyes bore a secret, and he
feared that his wife could read it. And yet, who was to blame? Was
anybody to blame? Could anything that had happened have been helped or
avoided?

He entered, determining to abide by Mrs. Dillingham's injunction of
silence. He found the servants extinguishing the lights, and met the
information that Mrs. Belcher had retired. His huge pile of trunks had
come during his absence, and remained scattered in the hall. The sight
offended him, but, beyond a muttered curse, he said nothing, and sought
his bed.

Mr. Belcher was not in good humor when he rose the next morning. He
found the trunks where he left them on the previous evening; and when he
called for the servants to carry them upstairs, he was met by open
revolt. They were not porters, and they would not lift boxes; that sort
of work was not what they were engaged for. No New York family expected
service of that kind from those who were not hired for it.

The proprietor, who had been in the habit of exacting any service from
any man or woman in his employ that he desired, was angry. He would have
turned every one of them o