cy in her step which she set to a little dancing air
she was humming under her breath.

After a moment or two the song ceased; she began to move slowly,
sedately; and, as if chilled by a raw breath of air, the light faded
from her eyes, which she presently turned toward her husband.

"Why do you look at me?" she asked, suddenly.

"I don't know, my dear," he began slowly and laboriously, as was his
wont. "I was thinkin' how nice you looked--jest now--much better, you
know; but somehow,"--he was taking long whiffs at his pipe, as usual,
between each word, while she stood patiently waiting for him to
finish,--"somehow, you alter so, my dear--you're quite pale again, all
of a minute."

She stood listening to him, noticing against her will the more than
suspicion of cockney accent and the thick drawl with which the words
were uttered.

His eyes sought her face piteously. She noticed that too, and stood
before him torn by conflicting emotions, pity and disgust struggling in
a hand-to-hand fight within her.

"Mr. Broomhurst and I are going down by the well to sit; it's cooler
there. Won't you come?" she said at last, gently.

He did not reply for a moment; then he turned his head aside, sharply
for him.

"No, my dear, thank you; I'm comfortable enough here," he returned,
huskily.

She stood over him, hesitating a second; then moved abruptly to the
table, from which she took a book.

He had risen from his seat by the time she turned to go out, and he
intercepted her timorously.

"Kathie, give me a kiss before you go," he whispered, hoarsely. "I--I
don't often bother you."

She drew her breath in deeply as he put his arms clumsily about her;
but she stood still, and he kissed her on the forehead, and touched the
little wavy curls that strayed across it gently with his big, trembling
fingers.

When he released her, she moved at once impetuously to the open doorway.
On the threshold she hesitated, paused a moment irresolutely, and then
turned back.

"Shall I--does your pipe want filling, John?" she asked, softly.

"No, thank you, my dear."

"Would you like me to stay, read to you, or anything?"

He looked up at her wistfully. "N-no, thank you; I'm not much of a
reader, you know, my dear--somehow."

She hated herself for knowing that there would be a "my dear," probably
a "somehow," in his reply, and despised herself for the sense of
irritated impatience she felt by anticipation, even before the words
were