save me from the thoughts which seemed to be wearing away my very life.  A dog could not more mutely have shown its craving for pity and companionship than I did; but the more I sought you out the more the desire seemed to grow upon you to nurse your own sorrow alone.  At last it got so (you must remember) that I saw you only at our meals, which you ate almost in silence.  The continued quiet of the house, and the company of my own sad thoughts and longings for him, finally grew more than I could bear, and so, after a year of suffering and solitude in this house, I broke down and tried to forget by accepting social invitations.  I had, of course, to go out alone; you refused to go with me.  So now I have humiliated myself to tell you the truth, and you can judge whether I am heartless or not; whether I truly loved my boy or not; and who is to blame if I am now heartless.”

She paused suddenly before him and said, in a firm, decisive voice:  “Until I heard your words to-night, my heart had not wholly hardened toward you, but now the little affection I had left for you has entirely gone.  Never could a woman have been more disappointed in a man than I have been in you; the idol I set up has been broken into a thousand fragments.  In adversity, when your manliness should have stood out true and bright, it warped and has grown to be a pitiable thing.  Your life is now so narrow and morbid that you have but little sense of justice left, as is shown by your throwing upon me all the blame for the trouble which has been growing up between us, and which has at last separated us.  You have said, Harold, that we must part; you have spoken truly.  You have said, to-night; again you have spoken truly, for on no consideration shall this roof shelter us again.  If you do not leave to-night, I most surely shall.”

Her mood again changed, and she said, with a low laugh, as she paced the floor with an amused air:  “And so I, Mrs. Townsley, am to be a deserted wife, a ‘grass widow,’ and all as a punishment for being heartless, too fond of pleasure, and for not having had any real love for my only boy!  What a dire, dire punishment, Harold!” She glanced mockingly down at the bowed head of her husband, which was now pillowed in his hands, and with another burst of musical laughter, swept gracefully over to the piano, seated herself at it, struck a few chords; and then, as if driven by sudden impulse, wheeled quickly round and said:  “But the runaway husband shall have something pleasant to remember the poor deserted wife by in his wanderings.  Be sure, Harold, and always think of me as singing this love-lorn ditty.”  Again she laughed, but this time there was a peculiar tremor in her voice which betrayed, better than anything else could have done, the great effort she was making to sustain her pride.  “Now listen: 

    “Oh! leave not your Kathleen, there’s no one can cheer her,
    Alone in this wide world unpitied she’ll sigh;
    And the scenes that were loveliest when thou wert near her
    Will—­”