A sharp light sprang from Lydia's gray eyes, "Stewart," she said, "your tone and your manner make that question very offensive—though you may have meant it to be amusing. Floyd brought me the book; I had no intention of concealing the fact from you."
"I think," Stewart said, and his voice was quiet and deliberate, "that as matters stand it would have been in better taste for Floyd not to make any gifts."
She looked at him; the flash of anger had faded from her face, leaving surprised and scornful contempt.
"Stewart! How can you be so bitter—so unfair! It hurts me to go away knowing that there is such unkindness in your heart."
"There is no unkindness in my heart," replied Stewart "But when I have had reason to expect generosity and receive instead injustice and injury, I cannot dissemble what I feel and think. You urge me to be magnanimous; that is easy when one has the upper hand. But when one has been unkindly dealt with, it is not well to be too readily magnanimous, for then it is not magnanimity at all; it is just a mean and cringing spirit. I would suggest, my dear, that you examine the matter a little more carefully before you make sure that your sympathy is properly bestowed."
Lydia did not reply; she felt that to protract the discussion could only enlarge the possibilities for unhappiness, and already it had made her unhappy enough. It was a forlorn and silent dinner through which the husband and wife sat, and it was an uncomfortable evening that followed. At last Lydia kissed Stewart good-night and went up to bed; when some time later, he entered the room, he found her lying still awake. She asked him to come to her, and then when he was sitting by her side, she reached up and put her arm about his neck. Her gentle soul had yielded under the pressure of her unhappiness.
"Stewart, dear," she said, "I can't go away feeling that there is something rankling between us. It would spoil
