He hated trouble, and sadness, and discomfort of others’ making, and he made up his mind at once to go away out of it for a time, and not return until the funeral, at any rate, was over.  So at the end of his meal he announced to Jessie that he had to go away for a week on business.  He wouldn’t bother her mother by telling her about it now, while she was worn out and trying to rest, but Jessie could tell her by and by.

What he should have done, of course, was to remain at home and relieve his poor stricken wife of all the painful details that necessarily followed the seeing about the little coffin, the grave, and the funeral.  But Harry Lang had trained people well for his own purposes.  No one ever expected assistance of any kind from him; so, instead of missing him, most people felt his absence as only a great relief.  Mrs. Lang and Jessie did so now.

At the end of ten days he came back again, expecting to find not only the funeral a thing of the past, but all feelings of loss and sorrow to be put away out of sight and memory.

“You’ll be able to take in another lodger now,” he remarked abruptly to his wife as he ate his supper on the night of his return.  “There’s a friend of mine that’ll be glad to take the room, and he’ll have his breakfast and supper here with me, just as Tom Salter does.”

Mrs. Lang did not speak until he had finished; then, without looking at him, she answered curtly, “I am not taking any more lodgers.”

Her husband looked up in sudden rage and astonishment.  He had never heard his wife speak like that before, and it gave him quite a shock.

“Not—­not—­” he gasped; “and whose house is this, I’d like to know; and who, may I ask, is master here?”

“The house belongs to the one that pays the rent.  This house is mine, and I am master here, and mistress too,” she answered coldly but firmly; “and if I did want another lodger, I shouldn’t take a friend of yours; I am going to keep my house respectable, as far as I can—­or give it up.”

Harry Lang’s voice completely failed him, and he sat silently staring at his wife in wide-eyed amazement.  He had thought he had long ago killed all the spirit in her, and here she was declaring her independence in the calmest manner possible, and actually defying him—­and he could find nothing to say or do!  Her tone to him, and the opinion, it was only too evident, she held of him, hurt and mortified him more than he had ever thought possible; for in his own opinion he had always been a tremendously fine fellow, very superior indeed to those poor creatures who went tamely to work, day after day, and handed their money over to their wives; and he thought every one else was of the same opinion.

“I—­I think trouble or something has turned your brain!” he stuttered at last, “and you had better look sharp and get it right again, I can tell you, or I’ll know the reason why.”

“My brain is all right,” said Mary Lang quietly; “trouble has turned my heart, perhaps, and that isn’t likely ever to get right again; but I don’t see that that can matter to you.  You never cared for me or my heart, or how I felt, or how anybody else felt, but yourself.”