as they had never in his life been stirred before. His wife entered the room softly but he neither saw nor heard her. She paused and looked at him for a moment and then went out without speaking to him. She was not vexed nor sullen, but she was inexpressibly troubled and sad, and she pitied him. In his work among the poor he had not consulted her, nor had he asked her aid. She forgave him for that, much as it grieved her. For, of course, he knew that she had her own burdens to bear, her children to care for, her house to be kept under ever more and more straitened circumstances and embarrassing conditions. So why should he burden her with his cares or sorrows, or harass her mind by recitals of the sufferings of others? Yet she had abundant reason to be despondent and distressed, and worn out in both body and soul. Society which had ceased to recognize him had, of necessity, gradually, but unobtrusively, closed its doors to her. Her whole life, in these bitter days, was compassed by the four walls of the rectory. If she could only have been his companion and helpmate how gladly she would have borne it all. But she knew her limitations, her childish incapacity, her deplorable lack of every resource on which he might have drawn to aid him in solving his problems or in performing the tasks that confronted him. How natural it was that, in default of this aid from her, he should accept, or even seek it from another. And with this thought the poignancy of her suffering reached its climax. For she saw, or believed she saw, the place that should have been hers as her husband's friend and counselor and loyal and helpful companion successfully filled by another. What cause, other than this, could bring more bitter sorrow into the heart of a loving wife? She was not angry nor resentful, but she was inexpressibly grieved and hurt.
When Barry and his companion entered the study the minister rose and welcomed them with sad cordial-
