y
gentleman in a sly corner; you need never be seen in it."

"Ay, ay," said he, "that is the small game. But I am a man that have
always preferred the big game. I shall set up my studio, and make enough
to keep us both. So give me the stone, if you please. I shall take it
round to them all, and the rogues won't get it out of ME for a hundred
and fifty; why, it is as big as a nut."

"No, no, Reginald. Money has always made mischief between you and me.
You never had fifty pounds yet, you didn't fall into temptation. Do
pray let me keep it for you; or else sell it--I know how to sell; nobody
better--and keep the money for a good occasion."

"Is it yours, or mine?" said he, sulkily.

"Why yours, dear; you earned it."

"Then give it me, please." And he almost forced it out of her hand.

So now she sat down and cried over this piece of good luck, for her
heart filled with forebodings.

He laughed at her, but at last had the grace to console her, and assure
her she was tormenting herself for nothing.

"Time will show," said she, sadly.

Time did show.

Three or four days he came, as usual, to laugh her out of her
forebodings. But presently his visits ceased. She knew what that meant:
he was living like a gentleman, melting his diamond, and playing her
false with the first pretty face he met.

This blow, coming after she had been so happy, struck Phoebe Dale stupid
with grief. The line on her high forehead deepened; and at night she sat
with her hands before her, sighing, and sighing, and listening for the
footsteps that never came.

"Oh, Dick!" she said, "never you love any one. I am aweary of my life.
And to think that, but for that diamond--oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!"

Then Dick used to try and comfort her in his way, and often put his arm
round her neck, and gave her his rough but honest sympathy. Dick's rare
affection was her one drop of comfort; it was something to relieve her
swelling heart.

"Oh, Dick!" she said to him one night, "I wish I had married him."

"What, to be ill-used?"

"He couldn't use me worse. I have been wife, and mother, and sweetheart,
and all, to him; and to be left like this. He treats me like the dirt
beneath his feet."

"'Tis your own fault, Phoebe, partly. You say the word, and I'll break
every bone in his carcass."

"What, do him a mischief! Why, I'd rather die than harm a hair of his
head. You must never lift a hand to him, or I shall hate you."

"Hate ME, Phoebe?"