he busy little housewife, the supper, frugal
but well-considered, simmering on the hob, the table spread white and
dainty, with knives and forks of silver (the Advocate's gift) laid out
in order.

Then all the warm and loving things that sleep in the breast of a man
rose up within me. The long, weary day was forgotten. The article I must
write was shoved into a corner out of the way. For this one hour, in
spite of whistling wintry winds and scouring sleet-drifts, the little
light yonder in the window was sufficient.

Two farthing dips, a hearth fire, and a loving heart! Earth had nothing
more to give, and my spirit seemed glorified within me. I had a curious
feeling of melting within me, which was by no means a desire to weep,
but rather as if all the vital parts of the man I was had been suddenly
turned to warm water. I cannot tell if any one has ever felt the like
before, but certainly I did that night, and "warm water" comes as near
to the real thing as I can find words to express.

It seemed an age while I was crossing the short, stubbly grass of the
Meadows. The light within beaconed redder and warmer. On the
window-blind I saw a gracious silhouette. Then there was the putting
aside the edge of the blind with exploring finger--sure sign that my
little wife had been regarding the clock and finding me a little late in
getting home.

As I ran up the short path to the gate I blew into my key. The latch of
the garden-gate clicked in the blast which swept across from the
Blackfords. But there at last before me was the door. The key glided,
well-accustomed, into its place, not rattling, but with the slide of
long-polished and intimate steel--soft, like silk on silk.

But the key never turned. The door opened, seemingly of itself, and,
gloriously loving, a candle held high in her hand, her full, white
house-gown sweeping to her feet, the little wife stood waiting.

I said nothing about the overplus of work that had filled my head as I
turned from the high, bleak portals of the University--nothing of how,
all unknowing, my traitor feet had carried me to the stairway in
Rankeillor Street--nothing of the long way, or the suspicious man in the
cloak, of the blast and the bent and the sting of the sleet in my face.

I was at home, just she and I--the two of us alone. And upon us two the
door was shut.

CHAPTER XXXIV

A VISIT FROM BOYD CONNOWAY

"I wonder," said Irma one Saturday morning when, by a happy acci