ith an effort.

Then he got up, and went to his tool-box. She watched him open it,
seeing him in a new light which encompassed him with even greater love.
"If I tell him to-night," she thought, "it will make him still more
anxious about leaving me. Perhaps he would refuse to go, and he must go.
I will not tell him till he comes back."

The resolution not to speak was like taking hold of a piece of iron in
frost. She had not known it would hurt so much. A new tremulousness,
sweet and strange, passed over her--not cowardice, not fear, not of the
heart nor of the mind, but a sort of emotion of the whole being.

"I will not tell him," she said again.

Her husband got out his tools, took up a plank from the floor, and put
the money into a hole beneath it, beside their small valuables, such as
they were, in a biscuit tin. Then he replaced the plank, screwed it
down, and she drew back a small fur mat over the place. He put away the
tools and then came and stood in front of her. He was not conscious of
her transfiguration, and she dropped her eyes for fear of showing it.

"I shall start early," he said, "as soon as it is light, and I shall be
back before sundown the day after to-morrow. I know it is unreasonable,
but I shall go easier in my mind if you will promise me one thing."

"What is it?"

"Not to go out of the house, or to let any one else come in on any
pretence whatever, while I am away," he said. "Bar everything, and stay
inside."

"I shan't want to go out."

He made an impatient movement.

"Promise me that, come what will, you will let no one in during my
absence," he said.

"I promise."

"Swear it."

She hesitated.

"Swear it, to please me," he said.

"I swear that I will let no one into the house, on any pretext whatever,
until you come back," she said, smiling at him.

He sighed and relapsed into his chair, and gave way to the great fatigue
that possessed him.

The next morning he started soon after daybreak, but not until he had
brought her in sufficient fuel to last several days. There had been more
snow in the night, fine snow like salt, but not enough to make
travelling difficult. She watched him ride away, and silenced the voice
within her which always said as she saw him go, "You will never see him
again; you have heard his voice for the last time." Perhaps, after all,
the difference between the brave and the cowardly lies in how they deal
with that voice. Both hear it. She silenced it