"I forgot to tell you, Bob," said Linda, who was desirous to make peace, "that we had quite an event here to-day;" and she proceeded to recount the battle between Bill and Patsy. Robert listened with an impatience ill-concealed.
"We'll have that boy off, to-morrow," said he, when Linda had finished her narrative; "he's been the companion of bad boys, and beyond a doubt he'll help them to rob us. I shouldn't wonder if we found Valentine and Lucy off some morning."
"I would depend my life on the poor boy," said Linda resolutely. "I know he would lose his life in our service."
"Pshaw," said Robert, who had always had a dislike to poor Bill, though why he could not explain, unless it was that he felt jealous of Linda's doing anything without first consulting him. "I tell you, Linda, I'll pack him off. I don't believe in having Uriah Heeps in my house; the gaol's their proper habitat."
"Well, I'll keep him," said Linda, who, having been a pet, just like Robert, could be equally obstinate; and who felt extremely hurt by the manner in which she had been treated by tho one she so passionately loved. We can love very deeply, and yet be very angry with the one we love, more so than with those we care little about.
"You'll keep him," cried Robert, in a loud voice. "This is my house, Linda, and I'll have no one here unless I like."
Now Bob was not exactly right. The house belonged to Linda, to whom it had been given by her brother on her wedding-day. It was a fatal expression, however, to use when the feelings of the two were so intensely irritated, when the first "tiff" between a young couple was on. Linda's temper had risen, and in an unguarded moment, as it were, without thought, as if spoken by some evil spirit that had taken possession of her, she allowed words to slip from her, that, had she foreseen the fearful consequences arising from them, she would have died before she would have uttered.
"I thought it was mine, sir," she said, somewhat sarcastically.
If there was a fault in Robert, it was a tendency to sulk, and a disposition to feel hurt readily, if he loved the aggressor—girls and boys who have been petted have a leaning that way. The effect of these six words was immediate; he sprang up, his face flushing with anger, his whole aspect changed. Rushing into the hall, he snatched his hat off the peg, took his stick out of the rack; and, standing at the door of the room where he amazed Harry, and the almost hysteric Linda, sat, he said: "Of course it is, and I'll leave it to you. Good evening. I see my company is not desired."
And he walked rapidly out of the gate towards the railway station.
Then did Linda realise what she had done. With a wild cry she rushed out to the verandah, and gazed after the retreating figure of her husband; whom, she believed, she had driven from her for ever. She could have cursed herself for what she had done; she could have torn out the unruly member which had worked such ill. Could this be; had Bobs gone off in a passion? Yes, yes; and as the full realisation of her misery overwhelmed her soul like a deluge, Linda fell insensible to the floor.
Already the dark clouds had dimmed the sky, and how soon would the thunder and the lightning roar and flash; how soon would the sun of happiness fade into darkness!
Poor Billy, who was laying the cloth in the adjacent diningroom, had heard all; and now, with poignant feelings of regret and sorrow, he resolved to leave that place where he had been so happy. He would not have that angel who had saved him unhappy for the world. Patsy had had his revenge.
Linda and Harry heard the poor boy's declaration, and did not object. But the noble determination so struck the generous soul of Harry, that he at once resolved to take the boy into his own service, and asked pardon of Heaven for doubting the child's innocence. He strove to comfort Linda, telling her that her husband would soon return, and all would be forgotten. To her earnest request that he would follow Robert, and get him to come back, Harry returned a negative. Nothing would work a cure, said he so quickly as self-communion. Perhaps so, but it is questionable whether Harry would not have saved his friend had he gone to seek for him that night Robert was of that nature that he liked to be made much of and sought after. Before Billy left, Harry called him into the parlor, and the boy told his strange eventful history.
Robert strode on to the railway station with a heart agitated with anger, shame, and stubbornness. He knew perfectly well however indiscreet Linda had been, that he was primarily to blame, for he had gone home that night with a mind thoroughly prepared for a quarrel. But then he had had
