The turning-point with Ellis had nearly come.  It required, comparatively, little beyond the weight of a feather to give preponderance to the scale of evil influences.  Cara’s reception, as shown in the last chapter, was no worse than he had anticipated, yet it hurt him none the less; for unkind words from her were always felt as blows, and coldness as the pressure upon his heart of an icy hand.  In the love of his children, who were very fond of him, he sought a kind of refuge.  Henry, his oldest child, was a bright, intelligent boy between eight and nine years of age; and Kate, between six and seven, was a sweet-tempered, affectionate little girl, who scarcely ever left her father’s side when he was in the house.

At the tea-table, only the children’s voices were heard:  they seemed not to perceive the coldness that separated their parents.  After supper, Mr. Ellis went up into the nursery with Henry and Kate, and was chatting pleasantly with them, when their mother, who had remained behind to give some directions to a servant, came into the room.

“Come!” said she, in rather a sharp voice, as she entered, “it is time you were in bed.”

“Papa is telling us a story,” returned Kate, in a pleading tone:  “just let us wait until he is done.”

“I’ve got no time to wait for stories.  Come!” said the mother, imperatively.

“Papa will soon be done,” spoke up Henry.

“It’s early yet, mother,” said Ellis; “let them sit up a little while.  I’m away all day, and don’t see much of them.”

“I want them to go to bed now,” was the emphatic answer.  “It’s their bed-time, and I wish them out of the way, so that I can go to work.  If you’d had their noise and confusion about you all day, as I have, you’d be glad to see them in their beds.”

“You’ll have to go,” said Mr. Ellis, in a tone of disappointment that he could not conceal.  “But get up early to-morrow morning, and I will tell you the rest of the story.  Don’t cry, dear!” And Mr. Ellis kissed tenderly his little girl, in whose eyes the tears were already starting.

Slowly, and with sad faces, the children turned to obey their mother, who, not for a moment relenting, spoke to them sharply for their lack of prompt obedience.  They went crying up-stairs, and she scolding.

The moment the door of the nursery closed upon the retiring forms of the children, Mr. Ellis started to his feet with an impatient exclamation, and commenced pacing the room with rapid steps.

“Temptations without and storms within,” said he, bitterly.  “Oh, that I had the refuge of a quiet home, and the sustaining heart and wise counsels of a loving wife!”

By the time Mrs. Ellis had undressed the children and got them snugly in bed, her excited feelings were, in a measure, calmed; and from calmer feelings flowed the natural result—­clearer thoughts.  Then came the conviction of having done wrong, and regret for a hasty and unkind act.