It was observable that, in proportion to the frequency with which he found it natural to remark his fondness for Harrie, his attentions to her increased.  He inquired tenderly after her headaches; he brought her flowers, when he and Miss Dallas walked in the autumn woods; he was particular about her shawls and wraps; he begged her to sail and drive with them; he took pains to draw his chair beside hers on the porch; he patted her hands, and played with her soft hair.

Harrie’s clear eyes puzzled over this for a day or two; but by and by it might have been noticed that she refused his rides, shawled herself, was apt to be with the children when he called her, and shrank, in a quiet way, from his touch.

She went into her room one afternoon, and locked the children out.  An east wind blew, and the rain fell drearily.  The Doctor and Pauline were playing chess down stairs; she should not be missed.  She took out her wedding-dress from the drawer where she had laid it tenderly away; the hoar-frost and fretted pearl fell down upon her faded morning-dress; the little creamy gloves hung loosely upon her worn fingers.  Poor little gloves!  Poor little pearly dress!  She felt a kind of pity for their innocence and ignorance and trustfulness.  Her hot tears fell and spotted them.  What if there were any way of creeping back through them to be little Harrie Bird again?  Would she take it?

Her children’s voices sounded crying for her in the hall.  Three innocent babies—­and how many more?—­to grow into life under the shadow of a wrecked and loveless home!  What had she done?  What had they done?

Harrie’s was a strong, healthy little soul, with a strong, healthy love of life; but she fell down there that dreary afternoon, prone upon the nursery floor, among the yellow wedding lace, and prayed God to let her die.

Yet Myron Sharpe loved his wife, you understand.  Discussing elective affinities down there over the chessboard with Miss Dallas,—­he loved his wife, most certainly; and, pray, why was she not content?

It was quite late when they came up for Harrie.  She had fallen into a sleep or faint, and the window had been open all the time.  Her eyes burned sharply, and she complained of a chill, which did not leave her the next day nor the next.

One morning, at the breakfast-table, Miss Dallas calmly observed that she should go home on Friday.

Dr. Sharpe dropped his cup; Harrie wiped up the tea.

“My dear Miss Dallas—­surely—­we cannot let you go yet!  Harrie!  Can’t you keep your friend?”

Harrie said the proper thing in a low tone.  Pauline repeated her determination with much decision, and was afraid that her visit had been more of a burden than Harrie, with all her care, was able to bear.  Dr. Sharpe pushed back his chair noisily, and left the room.

He went and stood by the parlor window.  The man’s face was white.  What business had the days to close down before him like a granite wall, because a woman with long trains and white hands was going out of them?  Harrie’s patient voice came in through the open door:—­