d of the vessel. Always,
now, it brought with it a sense of quickened life, of stimulating
danger. To-night it came upon him suddenly, as he was walking the floor,
after his wife left him. It seemed impossible; he could not believe it.
He glanced entreatingly at the door, as if to call her back. He heard
voices in the hall below, and knew that he must go down. Going over to
the window, he looked out at the lights across the river. How could this
happen here, in his own house, among the things he loved? What was it
that reached in out of the darkness and thrilled him? As he stood
there he had a feeling that he would never escape. He shut his eyes and
pressed his forehead against the cold window glass, breathing in the
chill that came through it. "That this," he groaned, "that this should
have happened to ME!"

On New Year's day a thaw set in, and during the night torrents of rain
fell. In the morning, the morning of Alexander's departure for England,
the river was streaked with fog and the rain drove hard against the
windows of the breakfast-room. Alexander had finished his coffee and
was pacing up and down. His wife sat at the table, watching him. She was
pale and unnaturally calm. When Thomas brought the letters, Bartley sank
into his chair and ran them over rapidly.

"Here's a note from old Wilson. He's safe back at his grind, and says he
had a bully time. `The memory of Mrs. Bartley will make my whole winter
fragrant.' Just like him. He will go on getting measureless satisfaction
out of you by his study fire. What a man he is for looking on at life!"
Bartley sighed, pushed the letters back impatiently, and went over to
the window. "This is a nasty sort of day to sail. I've a notion to call
it off. Next week would be time enough."

"That would only mean starting twice. It wouldn't really help you out at
all," Mrs. Alexander spoke soothingly. "And you'd come back late for all
your engagements."

Bartley began jingling some loose coins in his pocket. "I wish things
would let me rest. I'm tired of work, tired of people, tired of trailing
about." He looked out at the storm-beaten river.

Winifred came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. "That's
what you always say, poor Bartley! At bottom you really like all these
things. Can't you remember that?"

He put his arm about her. "All the same, life runs smoothly enough with
some people, and with me it's always a messy sort of patchwork. It's
like the song; p