flattering atmosphere of her sympathy.  He could not conceal from himself that his divided life was somewhat like Charles Lamb’s, and there were times when, as he had expressed to Fulkerson, he believed that its division was favorable to the freshness of his interest in literature.  It certainly kept it a high privilege, a sacred refuge.  Now and then he wrote something, and got it printed after long delays, and when they met on the St. Lawrence Fulkerson had some of March’s verses in his pocket-book, which he had cut out of astray newspaper and carried about for years, because they pleased his fancy so much; they formed an immediate bond of union between the men when their authorship was traced and owned, and this gave a pretty color of romance to their acquaintance.  But, for the most part, March was satisfied to read.  He was proud of reading critically, and he kept in the current of literary interests and controversies.  It all seemed to him, and to his wife at second-hand, very meritorious; he could not help contrasting his life and its inner elegance with that of other men who had no such resources.  He thought that he was not arrogant about it, because he did full justice to the good qualities of those other people; he congratulated himself upon the democratic instincts which enabled him to do this; and neither he nor his wife supposed that they were selfish persons.  On the contrary, they were very sympathetic; there was no good cause that they did not wish well; they had a generous scorn of all kinds of narrow-heartedness; if it had ever come into their way to sacrifice themselves for others, they thought they would have done so, but they never asked why it had not come in their way.  They were very gentle and kind, even when most elusive; and they taught their children to loathe all manner of social cruelty.  March was of so watchful a conscience in some respects that he denied himself the pensive pleasure of lapsing into the melancholy of unfulfilled aspirations; but he did not see that, if he had abandoned them, it had been for what he held dearer; generally he felt as if he had turned from them with a high, altruistic aim.  The practical expression of his life was that it was enough to provide well for his family; to have cultivated tastes, and to gratify them to the extent of his means; to be rather distinguished, even in the simplification of his desires.  He believed, and his wife believed, that if the time ever came when he really wished to make a sacrifice to the fulfilment of the aspirations so long postponed, she would be ready to join with heart and hand.

When he went to her room from his library, where she left him the whole evening with the children, he found her before the glass thoughtfully removing the first dismantling pin from her back hair.

“I can’t help feeling,” she grieved into the mirror, “that it’s I who keep you from accepting that offer.  I know it is!  I could go West with you, or into a new country—­anywhere; but New York terrifies me.  I don’t like New York, I never did; it disheartens and distracts me; I can’t find myself in it; I shouldn’t know how to shop.  I know I’m foolish and narrow and provincial,” she went on, “but I could never have any inner quiet in New York; I couldn’t live in the spirit there.  I suppose people do.  It can’t be that all these millions—­’