ble sense of dependence on a dead man's
bounty increased that feeling of obscure constraint and repugnance which
any reminder of the first husband's existence is wont to produce in his
successor.

He reddened at the reply, and Bessy, profiting by an embarrassment which
she had perhaps consciously provoked, went on hastily, and as if by
rote: "I have left you perfectly free to do as you think best at the
mills, but this perpetual discussion of my personal expenses is very
unpleasant to me, as I am sure it must be to you, and in future I think
it would be much better for us to have separate accounts."

"Separate accounts?" Amherst echoed in genuine astonishment.

"I should like my personal expenses to be under my own control again--I
have never been used to accounting for every penny I spend."

The vertical lines deepened between Amherst's brows. "You are of course
free to spend your money as you like--and I thought you were doing so
when you authorized me, last spring, to begin the changes at Westmore."

Her lip trembled. "Do you reproach me for that? I didn't
understand...you took advantage...."

"Oh!" he exclaimed.

At his tone the blood rushed back to her face. "It was my fault, of
course--I only wanted to please you----"

Amherst was silent, confronted by the sudden sense of his own
responsibility. What she said was true--he had known, when he exacted
the sacrifice, that she made it only to please him, on an impulse of
reawakened feeling, and not from any real recognition of a larger duty.
The perception of this made him answer gently: "I am willing to take any
blame you think I deserve; but it won't help us now to go back to the
past. It is more important that we should come to an understanding about
the future. If by keeping your personal account separate, you mean that
you wish to resume control of your whole income, then you ought to
understand that the improvements at the mills will have to be dropped at
once, and things there go back to their old state."

She started up with an impatient gesture. "Oh, I should like never to
hear of the mills again!"

He looked at her a moment in silence. "Am I to take that as your
answer?"

She walked toward her door without returning his look. "Of course," she
murmured, "you will end by doing as you please."

The retort moved him, for he heard in it the cry of her wounded pride.
He longed to be able to cry out in return that Westmore was nothing to
him, that all