a sensation that somehow she had been cheated in this
bargain, had been cajoled into giving the pure gold of love in return
for the counterfeit of mere liking.

True, he did not repent his marriage. Rather it seemed to him that it
might turn out successful after all; and since they spent the days
exploring the coast, which was new to both of them, there was plenty to
be said, an abundance of interesting subjects to discuss.

Only once--on the last night of their stay in Cornwall--was there the
slightest suspicion of a shadow between them; and Owen blamed himself
entirely for the occurrence.

It happened that Owen was suffering from a very severe headache--a not
uncommon complaint since his accident--and the afternoon post brought
him the proofs of an article required for the next number of the
_Bridge_. An urgent note from Barry accompanied the papers, begging for
an early revision; and after dinner Owen sat down to run through the
article in preparation for dispatch in the morning.

But his brain refused to work. His eyes felt as though each eyeball were
aflame; and his forehead was contracted with the severe pain which had
racked him all day, so that consecutive thought was almost impossible.
He tried, again and again, to do the work; but at length, so acute was
the agony in his eyes, he threw aside the papers with a groan.

Immediately Toni looked up from the magazine she was reading.

"May I help you?" She put the question rather timidly, and by way of
answer he tossed the bundle of proofs into her lap.

"Thanks awfully, dear. I simply can't see out of my eyes--neuralgia, I
expect. Do your best, won't you? You know how to read proof as well as I
do, now."

"Yes." So she did, for Barry had taught her thoroughly; and she had
applied herself to his lessons with every fraction of her intelligence.

What he had not taught her, however, was an extensive knowledge of the
master poets and their works; and Toni's ignorance betrayed her
hopelessly.

At the old-fashioned school she had attended, few poets were considered
fit for the girls' reading; Tennyson, of course, was included in the
pupils' studies, and Shakespeare, carefully edited, was a standby; but
of the works of Browning, Rossetti, Swinburne, Keats, Toni was
lamentably ignorant.

When, therefore, in the article before her she found a quotation from
one of Robert Browning's poems, followed almost immediately by a line
from one of the poet's wife's writi