“Oh, trouble!” said John,—­“trouble upon us all.  Gracie and Rose, the Spindlewood Mills have failed.”

“Is it possible?” was the exclamation of both.

“Yes, indeed!” said John; “you see, the thing has been running very close for the last six months; and the manufacturing business has been looking darker and darker.  But still we could have stood it if the house of Clapham & Co. had stood; but they have gone to smash, Gracie.  I had a letter this morning, telling me of it.”

Both women stood a moment as if aghast; for the Ferguson property was equally involved.

“Poor papa!” said Rose; “this will come hard on him.”

“I know it,” said John, bitterly.  “It is more for others that I feel than for myself,—­for all that are involved must suffer with me.”

“But, after all, John dear,” said Rose, “don’t feel so about us at any rate.  We shall do very well.  People that fail honorably always come right side up at last; and, John, how good it is to think, whatever you lose, you cannot lose your best treasure,—­your true noble heart, and your true friends.  I feel this minute that we shall all know each other better, and be more precious to each other for this very trouble.”

John looked at her through his tears.

“Dear Rose,” he said, “you are an angel; and from my soul I congratulate the man that has got you.  He that has you would be rich, if he lost the whole world.”

“You are too good to me, all of you,” said Rose.  “But now, John, about that bad news—­let me break it to papa and mamma; I think I can do it best.  I know when they feel brightest in the day; and I don’t want it to come on them suddenly:  but I can put it in the very best way.  How fortunate that I am just engaged to Harry!  Harry is a perfect prince in generosity.  You don’t know what a good heart he has; and it happens so fortunately that we have him to lean on just now.  Oh, I’m sure we shall find a way out of these troubles, never fear.”  And Rose took the letter, and left John and Grace together.

“O Gracie, Gracie!” said John, throwing himself down on the old chintz sofa, and burying his face in his hands, “what a woman there is!  O Gracie!  I wish I was dead!  Life is played out with me.  I haven’t the least desire to live.  I can’t get a step farther.”

[Illustration:  “O Gracie!  I wish I was dead!”]

“O John, John! don’t talk so!” said Grace, stooping over him.  “Why, you will recover from this!  You are young and strong.  It will be settled; and you can work your way up again.”

“It is not the money, Grace; I could let that go.  It is that I have nothing to live for,—­nobody and nothing.  My wife, Gracie! she is worse than nothing,—­worse, oh! infinitely worse than nothing!  She is a chain and a shackle.  She is my obstacle.  She tortures me and hinders me every way and everywhere.  There will never be a home for me where she is; and, because she is there, no other woman can make a home for me.  Oh, I wish she would go away, and stay away!  I would not care if I never saw her face again.”