she had gone through before their first child came dead. He
could see her still as she looked that morning in the barn crying:
"You'll be punished for this some day--you will--you will. You don't
love me, but some time you will love some one. Then you'll understand
what it is to be treated like this--" It gave him the creeps now to
remember it. It was like one of those old incantations; almost like a
curse. What if some day his Rose should grow to be as indifferent, feel
as little tenderness toward him as he had felt toward his wife at that
moment. The pain of it made him break out into a fine sweat. But he
hadn't understood. What had he understood until this love had come into
his life! He would never do a thing as cruel as that now. Come to think
of it, the older Rose wasn't acting like a bad sort. But then, when it
came to a show-down she might not be so magnanimous as she had appeared
tonight.

Mrs. Wade was still thinking. She also was measuring possibilities and
clairvoyantly sensing what was going on in her husband's mind. She, too,
was sure that Rose would capitulate to him. She felt a deep sympathy
for the girl. Martin had said it himself--he was too old for her. Her
happiness lay with youth. And yet, how could one be so certain? Love was
so illusive, so capricious! Did it really bow to the accident of years?
Had she, Rose Wade, the right to snatch from anyone's hands the most
precious gift of life? Wouldn't she have sold her very soul, at one
time, to have had Martin care for her like this? Oh, if the child were
wise she would not hesitate! She would drink her cup of joy while it
was held out to her brimming full. A strange conclusion for a staid
churchwoman like Mrs. Wade, but her rich humanity transcended all her
training. She wondered if there could be anything in the belief that
there was waiting somewhere for each soul just one other. There were
people, she knew, who thought that. Rose had drawn out all that was
finest in Martin--she had transformed him into a lover, and if she
wanted the man, himself, she could have him. But, decided his wife, he
could not take with him the things which her sweat and blood had helped
to create. She would give him a divorce, but her terms would be as
brutal as the Martin with whom she had lived these twenty years, and who
now took it for granted that she would let him do whatever he chose.
She was to be made to step aside, was she, with no weapon with which to
strike bac