sobs, told her what Mr. Hall had said, and what, as a consequence,
Donald had demanded--that she give up West's money.

"Are you going to do it?" Alice asked.

"Oh--I don't know--I don't know." Her sister tossed about on the bed
where she had thrown herself, moaning as though her heart would break.

Alice regarded her thoughtfully. "I told you what he would do," she
remarked at length. "I don't blame him. But, after all, he might be a
little less unreasonable--just now, too, when Emerson and I are about to
be engaged. It's a shame! Why didn't you humor him--say you would give
the money to mother, or something like that? He has no right to make
such a tragedy of the matter. Why not wait a while and see what he does?
He may reconsider, and come back."

"He never will--he never will."

"Well, then--it's up to you to decide which you want more--him, or the
money. It doesn't look as though you could have both. Take my advice and
go to sleep. Your mind will be clearer in the morning. I'll have
Richards bring you up some toast and tea. Now I'm going to see what I
can do to set this thing right with Emerson."

All the next day Edith lay in bed, tortured by the most agonizing
thoughts. At one moment she would decide to go to Donald and beg his
forgiveness, with all thoughts of the money cast to the four winds. At
the next, she would recoil before the hideous prospect of giving up all
that her life now held, and going back to the drudgery of her former
existence. It was a difficult position for any woman to be in, she
wailed to her mother, who sat beside her, alternately blaming Donald,
and reproaching Edith for not having at once denied the whole affair.

"Why didn't you laugh at Mr. Hall's story?" she demanded. "Some
hysterical tale of a nurse. Bah! I told you he was a fool. What right
has Donald to object, I should like to know, if you did encourage Mr.
West a little? I can't see anything so terribly wrong in that. You
didn't do anything wrong, did you?" She became furious when Edith
mumbled her denials. "The man is mad. He thinks he owns you, body and
soul. Mr. West was worth a dozen like him. He could appreciate a woman's
wants and needs. The idea of demanding that you give up what rightfully
belongs to you--just to please his whims. I'd let him understand that he
couldn't treat me as though I were a piece of property. What has he ever
done for you, that you should be so grateful and obedient? Made you live
like a servant. Don't think of going to him. I forbid it. You are my
child, and I have some rights. Let me talk to him. I'll go up to town
to-night, and tell him what I think of him. I've been waiting to do so
for some time. As Alice suggests, if he objects to your keeping this
money, promise to give it to me. I'll see that none of it is spent on
him, since it seems to hurt his pride so. His honor dragged in the mud!
Absurd! This honor he talks so much about isn't going to pay your bills,
and make your life worth living, is it? Selfish, my dear! That's the way
with all men. They want everything, and are willing to give nothing.
Even my poor, dear J. B., kind as he was, never understood me
thoroughly. He seemed to think that I should humor him, and wait on him,
just as though I hadn't any wifely rights at all. I tell you, Edith,
husbands nowadays are getting to expect entirely too much. If they give
you something to eat, and a place to sleep, they seem to think that they
have done all that is required of them. I wouldn't stand it, for one. I
told your father he would have to give me what I was accustomed to, or
I'd leave him. That's the way to treat a man, my child. Don't let Donald
think you are a doormat."

Edith scarcely heard her mother's words as they rumbled on. Only one
suggestion seemed good to her, and that was the latter's plan to go to
New York and see Donald. She felt too ill, too greatly unnerved, to do
so herself, and she was not yet ready to sacrifice all the material joys
of her existence to bring about a reconciliation. Perhaps some
compromise might be effected. At least her mother's visit would show
Donald that she was ready to meet him on some common ground, whereas to
ignore him altogether would but widen the breach between them. She
consented, therefore, to her mother's going, and wrote a little note to
Donald, begging him to forgive her, and to return to New London at once.
Meanwhile her mother hastened away to prepare herself for the fray.

Alice came in early in the afternoon, and told her that Mr. Hall had
proposed and that she had accepted him. "I don't know just what Emerson
thinks," she said. "He hasn't mentioned the matter since, but I believe
he half-suspects the truth. I've told him nothing, of course, except
that you and Donald have had a quarrel, but that everything will be all
right. He's acted so nicely about it all, though, that I think I'll tell
him the truth. He's going up to town with us this afternoon. Oh, yes, I
am going, too. Mother is likely to make a mess of everything. You know
how she goes on, when she once gets started. I'm sure I'd better be on
hand to steady her a bit. Donald is in no humor to be trifled with."

"No," murmured her sister; "he isn't. I never heard him speak so before.
It was terrible."

Alice drew her mouth into a mirthless smile and regarded Edith
critically. "I don't believe you know Donald as well as I do," she
remarked at length. "You've always thought him quiet, and mild, and
easy-going. You've even complained to me that he had no backbone--that
he didn't master you. You once said you'd have cared for him more, if he
had. You're like lots of women, Edith. You think because a man loves
you, and treats you tenderly, he's weak. You'd rather be beaten than
petted, I guess. Well, Sis--you've made a big mistake. Donald has always
been like clay with you, because he loved you, but I guess the fire that
you've started in him has burnt him hard. Don't imagine you can pull any
wool over his eyes now. He's likely to give you the surprise of your
life." She went over to the dressing-table and began to arrange her
hair. "Emerson is going to take mother and me to dinner as soon as we
get in town, and then we're going up to the apartment--about eight, I
think. We won't be back until to-morrow."

"Oh--if you could only bring Bobbie back with you!"

"Not likely, Edith. Donald loves that child with the love of a strong,
silent man, and he'll never give him up."

"But he's mine--mine."

"Not a bit more than he is Donald's. In fact, I rather think he has the
law on his side, if you come to that."

Edith renewed her sobbing. "I don't know what to do--I can't let him
stay there in town, in all the heat. It would kill him."

"Oh, no, it wouldn't. Bobbie isn't as frail as all that. Of course he'd
be better off here, but I guess he'll survive."

"Then you do advise me to give up the money?" Edith's voice held a note
almost of anger.

"Not at all. I advise you to give it to mother. That will satisfy
everybody--especially mother."

"And you, I suppose," remarked Edith petulantly.

"Oh--I don't care a rap. I'm too happy, thinking about Emerson, to care
about money. All that I ask is that you patch things up somehow, so as
to avoid a scandal." She turned to go. "Just suppose, Edith, that Donald
had been on the point of leaving you with some other woman, and the
woman had died, and left him a fortune. Would you like to spend any of
it? Think it over. Good-by, now. We've got to hurry, to make that
train."

Mrs. Pope looked in for a moment on her way downstairs. "Cheer up, my
dear," she said. "Don't let this thing worry you into a spell of
sickness. I'll arrange everything. I'm going to let Donald see that he
isn't the only one to be considered in this matter. The greatest good of
the greatest number--that's my policy. I won't have any high-flown
theatrical nonsense spoil your life."

"Mother," Edith called after her, "please be careful what you say." Mrs.
Pope paid no attention to her. The militant-looking feather upon her
large black hat wagged ominously as she strode down the stairs. "Idiot!"
she muttered to herself. "Why can't he act like a sensible human being?"

Left to herself, Edith started once more the treadmill of thought which
whirled around and around in a circle, and left her always just where
she had begun. No matter how she strove to justify Donald in his anger,
the dread specter of poverty grinned at her through all her arguments,
and her resolutions fled. She looked about the room. The rose pink
velvet carpet, the soft white bearskin rug beside the bed, the lovely
wall paper, the exquisite hangings, the graceful mahogany furniture, all
called to her compellingly. One of the maids, entering soft-footed,
brought her some bouillon and the breast of a chicken, on a silver tray.
The servant moved about noiselessly, pulling down the shades to shut out
the afternoon sun. Edith drew her clinging silk night-dress about her
throat, and sat up.

"Will madam have a glass of sherry?" the maid asked, as she removed an
immense bunch of roses from the low wicker table, and placed the tray
upon it.

Edith thought she would. Somehow, she was beginning to feel better. Her
mother, with Alice's assistance, would doubtless arrange everything
satisfactorily. After all, she had done no wrong. She ate the chicken
with considerable relish and sent the maid for some fruit. How different
all this was from the dingy, ill-smelling little apartment of the past,
where half her life was spent over the gas range. It all seemed very far
away from her, as she sank luxuriously back among the pillows and picked
up a book she had been trying to read.

The book proved dull and uninteresting. In a little while she fell
asleep. As she lay there, her firm round throat exposed, her lips, red
and full, slightly parted over her small white teeth, she looked very
alluring--very beautiful. The maid coming to the door, closed it softly,
and went downstairs to discuss the scandal of Mr. Rogers' disappearance
with Patrick and Fannie and the other servants. Over the whole house
brooded the hot white silence of a mid-August day.

CHAPTER XVIII

It was close to midnight when Donald Rogers, with Bobbie asleep in his
arms, reached the door of his apartment in One Hundred and Tenth Street.
The little fellow had protested at first against this unexpected
journey, but was too tired to give the matter much thought, and soon
slipped away into the land of dreams, where he found himself gaily
sailing his pony cart, which, strangely enough, seemed to resemble a
sailboat, with the pony sitting beside him in a very dignified manner,
acting as crew.

Donald himself spent a sleepless night. The cruel revelation of the
treachery to which he had been subjected at the hands of his best
friend, and, crowning this, the knowledge that his wife had been equally
untrue, left him like a man shipwrecked on an island of desolation, with
no one to whom he could turn for help or sympathy. He had trusted Edith
implicitly--had given her the best there was in him all these years; and
now it seemed that nothing but a cup of bitterness was to be his reward.
The minutes dragged as though they were hours, and it seemed as though
the dawn would never come. But at last the wretched night was over, and
morning found him in the little kitchenette, trying painfully, with
unaccustomed fingers, to prepare breakfast for Bobbie and himself.

Most of the day he spent with the child, wandering through the park, his
thoughts never far removed from the tragic moments of the evening
before. What would Edith do? was his incessant thought. He felt sure
that she would come to him because of Bobbie, but he was by no means
certain, realizing her innate vanity, that she would consent to give up
the money which West had left her, in return for his forgiveness. On no
other condition, however, would he treat with her. On this point he was
fully determined.

The dusk of evening found Bobbie and himself dining solemnly together in
a little restaurant at which he had been in the habit of getting his
meals during the hot weather.

On their return to the apartment, Donald, avoiding Bobbie's questions as
far as he could, regarding his mother's absence, sent the little fellow
to his room, and sank into his accustomed seat by the desk, staring
moodily into space. The sound of the buzzer in the kitchen, announcing
that the janitor was ready to remove the garbage, brought him back with
a sudden shock from his dreaming, and he began to realize his utter
loneliness. He picked up a paper, and made an ineffectual attempt to
read; but for some minutes was unable to concentrate his mind on the
page before him. Presently there emerged from the maze of type the
flaring headline:

 DIVORCED AFTER TEN YEARS' MARRIED
 BLISS.

 WIFE GETS CHILDREN--HUSBAND A
 SUICIDE.

He threw down the paper with a curse, and strode impatiently up and down
the room, glancing from time to time at his watch. A faint voice from
the bedroom door caused him to pause.

"Papa," it said.

He turned and saw Bobbie standing in the doorway. "Why don't you go to
bed, Bobbie?" he exclaimed, almost irritably, but his manner changed as
he observed the pathetic, appealing little figure. The child had taken
off his blouse, and wore only his little undershirt and his shoes.

"Won't you take off my shoes, papa? I got them all tied in knots." He
glanced reproachfully down at the cause of his trouble.

With a great pain gripping at his heart at the helplessness of the
child, Donald came quickly forward, and, seating himself, placed the boy
on his knee.

"We'll soon fix that, little man," he said, as he began to remove the
shoes.

"Papa--where is mamma?"

"She's in the country, dear."

"When is she coming?"

"I don't know, Bobbie," he responded, with a heavy sigh. In his interest
in the child he had for the moment almost forgotten the absence of his
wife.

"Is she coming to-night, papa?" the little fellow continued tremulously.

"No, Bobbie, not to-night."

"Why isn't she, papa?" And then, after a short interval of puzzled
reflection: "She belongs here, doesn't she?"

"She can't come to-night, my child. And you must be a good little
fellow, and not ask papa any more about it. Now, it's time you went to
sleep," he concluded, as he finished his task.

"Papa, are you angry with mamma?"

The childish question hurt him to the quick. "Don't bother your little
head about it, my child. You wouldn't understand. Remember that she is
your mother, and you must love her always."

"I do, papa. She got me my pony, and my boat, and lots of things. I wish
she was here right now."

"You must be patient, dear, and go to sleep quietly, like a good boy.
To-morrow I will get a nice, kind lady to take care of you."

"I don't want a nice, kind lady. I want my mamma. She always hears me
say my Now-I-lay-me."

"Your what?" he asked, not understanding.

"My Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep. That's my prayers. She always hears me
say them when she comes to kiss me good-night."

He looked away, with a sudden rush of pain. There were tears in his
eyes now. "Of course. Bobbie--I--I understand," he faltered.

"She said I must never, never skip, for the Lord would know, and be
angry."

"Let me hear you, dear."

"Do you know prayers?" The child looked at his father in wonder. "I
didn't know men knew prayers."

"Yes, Bobbie. Sometimes they do. Go ahead."

The child folded his hands, and stood at his father's knee. "If I don't
remember it all, you must tell me," he continued.

"Very well, dear; I will." The tears were coming fast now.

"'Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to--to--'" The
quavering little voice halted.

"'Keep,'" his father supplied.

"'Keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Amen.'" He looked at his father expectantly. "You didn't say, 'Amen,'
papa. Mamma always says it."

"'Amen,'" repeated Donald gravely, as he kissed the boy's tousled head.

"Do you think, papa, if I pray the Lord to send mamma back, she will
come?"

"I think she might, dear. When you go to bed, you must wish that she
will just as hard as you can."

"And then to-morrow she will be here?" cried the child eagerly.

"I--I hope so, dear. Are you ready now?" He rose and led the little
fellow toward the bedroom door.

"Yes, papa. I'm not afraid now. Good-night." He put up his face to be
kissed.

"Good-night, dear." The father kissed him almost reverently, and, after
the door was closed, stood for a long time gazing at it--his face
twitching. Then he threw himself into a chair, rested his arms upon the
desk, and buried his face in his hands, in a paroxysm of sobbing. It was
the first time in many years that Donald Rogers had cried.

It was some ten minutes later that he was roused by the ringing of the
door-bell. He rose, crossed to the door, and opened it, to admit Mrs.
Pope and Alice.

Mrs. Pope advanced into the room with her accustomed air of ruffled
dignity. "Donald--what does all this foolishness mean?" she inquired.

"I don't understand you," he answered shortly. "What do you want here?"

"Can you have the audacity to ask me that? I am here to protect my
daughter's rights."

"Did she send you?" he asked quietly.

"I do not need anyone to send me when my child's happiness is at stake.
What does this outrageous conduct mean?"

"Mother! For goodness sake, be a little more polite," interjected Alice.

"Alice, be quiet!" Her mother regarded her with stern disapproval. "This
is no time for mincing matters." She turned angrily to her son-in-law.
"Do you intend to answer my question?"

Donald regarded her with a dislike he took no pains to hide. "I owe no
explanation of my conduct to you," he said.

"Sir, do you think a mother has no rights?"

Again Alice interrupted. "Mother--wait--please." She stepped between
them. "Edith is suffering very much, Donald."

"So am I," he remarked grimly.

"Then why don't you stop it?" Mrs. Pope was not to be put off. "What do
you mean by dashing out of the house like a madman, kidnaping your
child, and disgracing us all before a stranger? It's outrageous!"

"Disgracing you! What about my disgrace?" Donald turned from her and
addressed himself to Alice. "Alice," he asked, "does your mother know
why I left New London? Do you?"

"Yes--I--know what Emerson said."

Again Mrs. Pope interrupted. "I know that you accuse my daughter of
carrying on a love-affair with Mr. West," she cried. "I don't believe
it--but what of it? What if she did? You did precious little for her,
goodness knows. Now that she has a little happiness, you want to take it
away from her, just because you didn't give it to her. You ought to be
ashamed of yourself!"

"I'll settle this matter with my wife--not with you." Donald's voice
showed his irritation at her interference.

"Poor child! My poor child! Why will you not listen to reason?"

"I don't care to discuss the matter any further. Our ideas are too
different on some subjects." He went over toward the desk, turning his
back upon the others.

Mrs. Pope, however, refused to be turned aside. "I should hope they
were," she asserted doggedly. "I didn't come here to discuss the matter,
either. I came to ask you to come back to New London with Bobbie at
once."

"What you ask is impossible," said Donald, without turning. "I shall
never go back there again."

"What! After taking the house for the summer? What will everyone think?"

"It makes no difference to me what they think. It is what I think that
concerns me now."

"You always did think of no one but yourself. Do you expect my daughter
to spend the summer there alone? Can't you see that it is out of the
question?" Mrs. Pope was shaking with rage.

"No," cried Donald, turning on her angrily. "I do not expect her to
spend the summer there alone. I expect her to return here to me."

"To return here!" exclaimed Mrs. Pope, aghast. "To spend the summer in
this place! Are you mad?"

"No--I am not. Sometimes I think money has made you so."

Mrs. Pope paid no attention to his words. She was too busy trying to
grasp the full purport of what she had just heard. "What can you be
thinking of?" she cried. "Spend the summer here--in this tenement--with
thirty thousand dollars a year?"

Donald regarded her coldly. "My wife will not have thirty thousand
dollars a year if she returns here," he said. "She will have what I am
able to give her, and no more."

"Then what on earth will she do with her money?"

"I intend that she shall give it to charity."

"Charity! Doesn't charity begin at home? If you are mad enough to
deprive her of it, she must give it to Alice and to me."

"Never--with my consent. That would be the same as if she had it
herself."

"Half a million dollars! To charity! I shall use every effort to prevent
her from making such a fool of herself. I insist that she give the money
to Alice and me."

"Count me out, mother," exclaimed Alice, with a short laugh. "Emerson
wouldn't let me touch a cent of it. He told me so."

"Does Mr. Hall know about this?" asked Donald suddenly.

"Of course he does. How could he help it? Do you suppose I could keep it
from him, after what you did last night? Edith in hysterics--you and
Bobbie gone--mother carrying on like a chicken with its head off. What
could you expect?"

"And he refuses to let you have any share in this money?"

"I don't believe he'd marry me, if I had. Emerson's mighty independent.
He says he has enough for both of us, and what he hasn't we'll do
without."

"God bless him!" said Donald earnestly. "He's a man!"

"He's a fool," Mrs. Pope exclaimed angrily; "as big a one as you are."

Her words, her manner since entering the room, had slowly been causing
Donald to lose his temper.

"No!" he blazed out, facing her. "You are the one who is a fool. What
have you been drumming into your daughters' heads for years? Money!
Money! Nothing but money! You would put up your children at auction, and
sell them to the highest bidder, just for money. You come here and blame
me for all this trouble, and you haven't sense enough to see that it is
all your fault, and yours alone. Ever since Edith and I were married you
have talked to her of nothing but my poverty, my shortcomings, my
failures. You have preached discontent to her until she was ready to
fall in love with the first man who came along with a little more money
than I had. You are the cause of all this trouble--you, and nobody else.
Don't come here and talk to me about my conduct. Try to be a little more
careful of your own."

Mrs. Pope took out her handkerchief and applied it gently to her eyes.
"And is this the thanks I get, after all these years?" she said
tearfully. Then she turned to Alice: "Are you against your poor sister,
too?"

"No, I'm not. I want to see Edith happy, and I don't think she ever will
be as long as she keeps a cent of this money. I know I advised her to
keep it in the first place. I thought she could do lots of good with
it. So she could, if Emerson hadn't put his foot in it. As it is, I
don't see anything for her to do but give it up."

"You've changed a good deal, it seems to me," remarked her mother
stiffly.

"I have. I've talked it over with Emerson."

"Emerson! Pooh!" Mrs. Pope gave an indignant snort.

"Never you mind about Emerson," said Alice with spirit. "He and I are
going to find happiness in Chicago, in our own way. I know you don't
like him, so perhaps it's just as well we are going to live a thousand
miles off."

Mrs. Pope began to weep audibly. "Of all the thankless tasks," she
groaned, "a mother's is the worst. Here I've spent twenty-five years in
raising you girls, living for you, waiting on you, slaving for you; and,
now, you turn on me like this. It's a shame--that's what it is--a shame!
When my poor, dear J. B. was alive--"

"Never mind about that now, mother. We didn't come up here to have a
family row. Let's see if we can't fix up this trouble between Donald and
Edith." She turned to her brother-in-law with a look of deep concern.
"Mother insisted upon this interview, Donald. I told her it would do no
good."

"Not if Donald insists upon making beggars of us all," Mrs. Pope
interrupted tearfully.

Alice took no notice of her interruption. "You got Edith's note?" she
continued.

"Yes."

"Are you going to her?"

"No. She must come to me. You can tell her so. But I insist upon seeing
her alone." He glanced significantly at Mrs. Pope.

"I shall not inflict my company upon you any longer, Mr. Rogers,"
exclaimed the latter indignantly. "Good-night!" She swept toward the
door. Alice followed her.

"Good-night, Donald," Alice said, as she left the room. "I hope you and
Edith will come to some sort of an agreement. Remember Bobbie."

Left alone, Donald went slowly over to the chair in which he had been
sitting, and, stooping, gathered up Bobbie's little shoes and stockings,
and placed them gently within the bedroom. Then he began to pace
endlessly up and down the floor.

CHAPTER XIX

On the following morning Donald Rogers determined to go down to Mr.
Brennan's office and have a talk with him. As the executor of West's
estate, as well as Mrs. Rogers' attorney, he felt that the lawyer might
be able to suggest a basis for an understanding of some sort between
Edith and himself. Bobbie he took to his own office and left in the care
of his draughtsman. The child was delighted, and spent the morning
drawing ships and dogs and many other things upon a great sheet of
cardboard with which the latter provided him.

Mr. Brennan was luckily in. Perhaps he suspected the object of Donald's
visit--at any rate he received him at once, dismissed the stenographer
who had been taking notes at his side, and waved his caller to a chair.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Rogers," he began. "How is Mrs. Rogers? I trust
she is enjoying her stay at the seashore."

"Mrs. Rogers is very well." Donald nervously began to light a cigar,
fumbling with the matches awkwardly in his agitation. Now that he was
with Mr. Brennan, he felt at a loss to know how to begin.

"Let me see. You are at New London, are you not? Beautiful old place. I
spent a summer there, once. You go down for the week ends, I presume."

Donald ceased his efforts to light the cigar, threw the box of matches,
which Mr. Brennan had handed him, upon the desk, and looked up.

"Yes. I was there on Saturday. I left Saturday night. I had a
disagreement with Mrs. Rogers. That's what I came to see you about."

Mr. Brennan raised his eyebrows, put on his glasses slowly, and
inspected his caller with deliberate care. "I'm very sorry to hear it,
Mr. Rogers," he said. "Nothing serious, I trust?"

"I'm afraid it is--very."

"Hm-m. Dear me! And what can I do in the matter?"

"You are a friend of both Mrs. Rogers and myself. I want your advice. I
want you to see her--to talk to her."

"What's the trouble?" Brennan sat back in his chair, prepared to listen,
with a grave suspicion in his mind as to the cause of Donald's heavy
eyes and careworn face.

"Before I can discuss the matter with you, Mr. Brennan, I want to ask
you one question."

"Yes? What is it?"

"Do you know why West left his money to my wife?"

"My dear sir. That is a very peculiar question. How should I know?"

"You were the executor of his will."

"Undoubtedly. Yet I fail to see what that has to do with it."

"You must have seen his papers--his letters." Donald looked at the
lawyer intently. "Answer me frankly, Mr. Brennan. Do you know?"

"Surely, Mr. Rogers, you can hardly expect me to answer such a question,
even granting that I could do so."

"Why not?"

"As executor of Mr. West's will, it is certainly not my business to
discuss the reasons which may have prompted him to make it."

Donald rose and went over to the lawyer. "Mr. Brennan," he cried, "don't
try to quibble with me. I have asked you a plain, blunt question. You
are under no obligation to answer it, of course, but, until you do so,
we can proceed no further."

"I always supposed it was because he was very fond of her," ventured the
lawyer uneasily.

"Fond of her! Yes! But how, Mr. Brennan? How?"

"They were very old friends, were they not?"

"Were they nothing more?" Donald leaned over the desk and fixed his eyes
keenly upon those of the man opposite him. He felt the blood surging to
his temples. "Why don't you answer me, Mr. Brennan?" he went on, as the
lawyer dropped his eyes. "Were they nothing more?"

His searching questions began to annoy the lawyer. "Why do you ask me
such a question, Mr. Rogers?" he snapped.

"Only to find out how much you know. Mrs. Rogers has confessed
everything to me. You can do her no harm by telling me the truth, and
you will make it much easier for us to go ahead. Do you know?"

"Yes," Brennan answered at length, in a low voice.

"How?"

"All the letters your wife wrote to West came to me along with his other
papers."

Donald recoiled in bitterness of spirit. However certain he had been of
Edith's guilt, he still hoped that Mr. Brennan, in some way, might
disclose mitigating circumstances, facts of which he himself was not
cognizant, whereby her affair with West might present an appearance less
damning.

"My God!" he muttered. "And you read them?"

"Yes. I considered it my duty to examine all his papers."

"How did you know they were from my wife?"

"By her initials, signed to them--by the handwriting."

"And you have known this all these months, and said nothing?" Donald
strode to the window and looked out. The North River, quivering in the
hot sunlight, was a clutter of barges, tugs and ferry-boats, but his
eyes, blurred with tears, saw nothing. Presently he turned. "Where are
those letters now?" he asked.

"I do not know. I gave them to Mrs. Rogers. I advised her to destroy
them. I presume she has done so."

An angry light crept into Donald's eyes. "You had no right--" he began
hotly.

Mr. Brennan raised his hand. "You are in error, Mr. Rogers. I had every
right. The letters belonged to your wife, by law. Mr. West left her
everything he possessed."

"What did she say to him?" He strode excitedly toward the desk. "Tell
me, man. Can't you see what it means to me?"

"They were the letters of a weak, foolish woman, Mr. Rogers--not a bad
one--of that I am sure."

"Not a bad one? You mean--?"

"I mean, Mr. Rogers, that whatever your wife may have intended to
do--however far she may have intended to go--West's death saved her from
the one step which the world considers unforgivable."

"I hope you are right--God knows I hope you are right."

"I am sure that I am. Now tell me what has happened."

"I have left my wife. I have left her, and taken my boy."

"Well--now that you have taken that step, what do you propose to do
next?"

"I don't know. That is what I want to discuss with you. It is a terrible
situation. I scarcely know which way to turn. She has sent me a letter,
asking me to see her. I have agreed to do so--to-day. What I shall say
to her I do not know. Within the past forty-eight hours I have had every
good and kind and generous impulse within me shattered and destroyed.
The friend that I loved and trusted has betrayed me. The wife for whom I
would have given my life has proven disloyal--false. My self-respect is
gone. My home is a wreck. The money that keeps it up comes from a man
who did his best to ruin me." He began to walk about, distracted, his
voice choking with feeling. "Is it any wonder that I feel bitter? Is it
any wonder that I do not know what to do?"

The lawyer removed his glasses and considered them carefully for a long
time. The problem was indeed a serious one.

Presently he spoke. "The first consideration, of course, is your child."

"I know it. I have taken him from his mother. He wants her--needs her.
Have I the right to deprive him of her love?"

"Not unless she has proven herself unworthy of it."

"Hasn't she? Is a woman who is unfaithful to her husband--who is willing
to live on the money given her by the man who made her so--is such a
woman fit to bring up a child--to teach him to be straightforward, and
honest, and good?"

"You use strong terms, Mr. Rogers. As I said before, I do not believe
your wife has been unfaithful to you."

"I do not refer to any specific act. Unfaithfulness is not alone a
physical thing. She has fallen in love with another man. She has agreed
to abandon her husband, and run away with him. She was willing to
sacrifice even her child, by robbing him of his father. In one week
more, but for this man's death, she would have done all these things. Is
not such a woman unfaithful? Is not that enough? Could any one act have
made her more so? If your wife were to do these things, would you not
call her unfaithful?"

"You refuse to forgive her, then?"

"No. I do not refuse to forgive her. I have told her that I am ready to
do so, on one condition."

"What is that condition, Mr. Rogers?"

"That she give up this man's money."

"Has she agreed?"

"No. She has refused."

"Why do you insist on that?"

"Is it possible that you do not understand? What else can I do? If she
returns to me, it must be with clean hands."

"You ask a great deal, Mr. Rogers. It seems to me that your chances for
happiness would be a great deal better, if you were to let her keep this
money."

"Man--do you realize what you are saying? Isn't there a greater question
at stake than just my happiness? Isn't it right? Isn't it her duty?
Isn't it necessary to her own self-respect? I cannot see how she could
hesitate for a moment."

"Then you do not understand women. There are not many of them, situated
as she is, who could resist the temptation of thirty thousand dollars a
year."

"Then you defend her, Mr. Brennan. I did not expect it from you. I had
hoped you would see her--talk to her--show her what a terrible mistake
she is making."

The lawyer rose, and began to walk up and down in deep thought. All his
life, he had been concerned with the one idea, the one duty--that of
preserving for his clients every dollar that the law allowed them. Money
in a way had become almost sacred to him. Other points of view seemed
foolish, quixotic. "I'm a cold-blooded, practical man, Mr. Rogers. Life
as I have seen it has not made me sentimental. Lawyers rarely are. Half
a million dollars is a large sum of money. It means freedom from all the
wretched, grinding cares of existence, that fret out one's soul. Few
things in life make much difference, after all, if one has a comfortable
bank-balance. You ask your wife to give up all that this money means,
and come back to poverty--comparatively speaking at least. It is a hard
question for any woman to decide--a mighty hard question."

"You are wrong. You judge from the cynical, money-getting standpoint of
Broadway. There are bigger and finer and nobler things in the world than
money. It's the right of the thing that counts."

"Perhaps it is, Mr. Rogers, but most women don't look at things that
way. They are creatures of impulse. Logic is not their strong point. You
expect too much of your wife. I have known a great many women--in my
time--and my experience is that the best of them have their price." He
noticed Donald's dissenting gesture, but waved his interruption aside.
"Don't misunderstand me. I do not necessarily mean in a wrong way. It
may be a title, or a million, with some--with others the price of a
meal, or a lodging for the night. The man who expects too much of women
is bound to be disappointed. Let your wife keep this money. With it she
will be happy--contented. Without it, she will be miserable. She has
tasted the pleasures of wealth--now--and her old life will seem doubly
distasteful to her. Don't be unreasonable. Remember that after all, she
is, like most women, a good deal of a child."

Donald took up his hat, and his face showed the disappointment he felt.
"Mr. Brennan," he said, "I'm sorry I can't think as you do. I was
brought up to know the difference between right and wrong, and I haven't
forgotten it. It would be impossible--absolutely impossible--for me to
share in any way in this money, or to let my boy do so. On that point I
am determined."

Brennan looked grave, and regarded Donald with cynical compassion. "I'm
sorry to hear it, Mr. Rogers. In that case I do not see that I can be of
any service to you."

"Then you won't undertake to see Mrs. Rogers, and convince her of her
mistake?"

"I do not think it will have any result. You are very young yet, Mr.
Rogers. You look at this thing entirely too seriously."

Donald turned away with a great sense of bitterness, of injustice, in
his heart. "My God!" he cried. "How can you say such a thing? There is
only one way to look at it, and that is the right way. In your heart,
you know it. Don't you suppose it would be the easiest way, for me to
take this money? Isn't there every reason why I should? My wife--my
child--my business interests, all urge me to accept it--to make of
myself that most contemptible thing in the world--a man who is willing
to live on a woman--to share with her what she has got from her lover.
You know what they call such creatures. You know that no decent,
self-respecting man could do what you have advised me to do. I value
my wife--my home, more than most men do--I have given them the best I
had in me--but one thing I value even more than them, and that is my
self-respect. I have not made a great success in life, in a material
way, but what I have made, I have made honestly. I have always been able
to look the world squarely in the face, without feeling ashamed, and I
propose to keep on doing so. Advise my wife as you please. Her mother
and sister are with you. But I want you to understand--the whole lot of
you--that she need not expect me to forgive her, and take her back, so
long as she keeps a dollar of this man's money, for I won't do it--by
God, I won't do it!" He flung angrily toward the door.

Mr. Brennan stared at him for a moment, then reached out his hand.
"Mr. Rogers," he said, "your views may not be practical, and they
may not bring you happiness, but, by God, sir, I respect you for
them. Good-day."

Donald went back to his office like a man who has met a crushing blow,
but met it undaunted. He found Bobbie, tired of his pencil and paper,
looking out of the window at the boats on the river, and wailing for
his mother.

The father disposed of his mail while the boy played about his desk,
gave his assistant a few instructions, and, with Bobbie holding his
hand, once more started up-town. On the way, he bought the child
some little chocolate cigars, thereby lulling him into temporary
forgetfulness of his mother's absence. Life seemed all of a sudden
to have become very gray and bitter.

One ray of light, however, pierced the overshadowing gloom. Forbes, his
partner in the glass-plant venture, had wired Donald from Parkersburg
that he had succeeded in securing from some bankers there the necessary
money to tide over the crisis in the company's affairs. Several large
orders had come in also. It appeared certain that they would be able
to weather the storm. The good news seemed trifling, somehow, in his
present state of mind, but it was something, and for the moment he felt
grateful.

CHAPTER XX

Edith Rogers came to see her husband, probably less inclined toward
the sacrifice upon which he insisted than she had been when he left
her the Saturday before. Her heart had ached to see her boy, but she
felt a growing resentment toward Donald, for what she felt was his
hard-heartedness. Her feelings in this direction had been fanned to a
flame by the arguments of her mother, who had succeeded in persuading
her that what Donald asked was unreasonable and wrong. She knew that the
affair between West and herself had not gone to the ultimate lengths
that Donald evidently suspected--she did not stop to consider that in
all else but this one thing she had been utterly faithless, and that
even this step she would have taken, had not death intervened and saved
her. Being a woman, she could not put herself in Donald's place, and
understand the brutal way in which his feelings had been outraged by
the treachery of the two persons on earth whom he had most loved
and trusted--his wife and his friend. Hence it was in no spirit of
repentance that she entered the little room in which she had spent so
many weary hours, but rather as one who came to demand her rights.

Her mother had returned from New York furious with Donald, and
determined to use every means in her power to prevent a reconciliation
between him and Edith. Her carefully detailed description of the
reception which her son-in-law had given her, a description which lost
nothing by reason of the fury into which Mrs. Pope had succeeded in
working herself, made Edith realize fully that Donald was very much in
earnest, and not at all likely to return to her, however long she might
wait for him to do so.

There was clearly but one thing to do: she must go to him, and endeavor
to show him the cruelty, the unreasonableness, of his attitude.
Something in the firm stand which he had taken compelled her admiration;
even while it dealt a blow to her pride. She had never known Donald to
be like this before--he had always humored her, always been apologetic,
regretful because he was unable to gratify her every desire. She longed
for the moment to come, when she might see him and Bobbie again, and
determined to use every power of attraction she possessed to bring him
to her way of thinking. It had been easy in the past--her tears, her
reproaches, had usually brought him contritely to her feet.

Mrs. Pope, in her anger, attempted to dissuade Edith from this
intention. "I shouldn't go near him, my dear," she said, her eyes
snapping. "Let him stay there alone for a week or two, with Bobbie to
look after. That will bring him to his senses." Edith, however, would
not listen to her. "I shall go, mother," she said. "After all, Donald
has been pretty badly treated. I never should have acted as I did. I
mean to do my best to let him see that I care for him just as much as I
ever did. Of course, he must be reasonable, too. I'm not going to give
up this money. He ought not to ask it."

Alice had been listening to the conversation between her mother and
sister in gloomy silence. Mr. Hall had decided to move to the hotel for
the remainder of his stay, and she was annoyed to think that all her
plans had been upset. "What's the use of deluding yourself, Edith," she
remarked pointedly. "Donald will make you give up that money as sure as
fate. I never saw him so angry."

"Alice, you talk like a fool," said her mother. "How can he make her
give it up? He's hardly likely to use a club."

"Wouldn't be a bad idea," Alice flung at them, as she left the room.
"Edith has needed one, for some time." Mrs. Pope was aghast. "Sometimes,
Edith," she confided to the latter, "I think Alice is losing her mind."
Edith was not so sure. She had always had great faith in her sister's
judgment, and the latter's remark worried her.

There was one way, she concluded, and only one, to deal with Donald. She
must make herself as attractive, as alluring, as possible. When she
dressed herself, the following afternoon, for her trip to the city, she
put on her most becoming gown, her most effective hat. She prepared
herself with the greatest care. Her maid spent most of the forenoon
getting her ready, manicuring her nails, washing and drying her hair,
massaging her face, doing everything, in fact, that might be done to
enhance her physical charms. She knew she had always been a beautiful
woman--she was sure, when she glanced at herself in the cheval glass in
her bedroom, that she had never appeared to greater advantage. It did
not occur to her that she might make a better impression upon her
husband in the sober garb of repentance. She wanted to attract him, to
charm him, to force him to desire her so greatly that he would make any
sacrifice in order to bring her to his arms.

In all this she showed her lack of understanding of Donald's character.
Everything she wore, from her dainty _suède_ slippers to her costly hat,
she owed to West. The jewels she wore had been purchased with his money.
The gold purse which dangled so carelessly from her wrist, accompanied
by an array of pencils, vanity boxes and fashionable gew-gaws, his
wealth alone had made possible. Had she but appreciated it, everything
about her was calculated to send Donald into a storm of rage, rather
than to attract him and bring him submissively to her feet.

Mrs. Pope nodded proudly as her daughter came down the stairs. "You look
stunning, dear--a wife of whom any man might be proud. Don't give in an
inch. You have right on your side, and it only requires a little courage
to win." She settled herself comfortably in her chair. "Would you mind
ringing for Richards, my dear? I must have a refreshing drink of some
sort. This heat is positively unbearable."

The ride to town was hot and uncomfortable. Edith, on her arrival, went
at once to a hotel near the station and ordered dinner. She did not feel
particularly hungry--she was too nervous and excited for that; but she
felt the need of something to sustain her throughout the trying ordeal
which, she knew, lay before her. Then, too, she had at least two hours
to wait, before eight o'clock, at which time she felt that Donald would
have finished his dinner and be ready to receive her.

She drove up-town, after her meal, in a taxicab, and arrived at the
Roxborough a little before eight. The tawdry entrance to the place, with
its imitation marbles and imitation palms, sent a shiver of apprehension
through her. God, to come back to a place like this! It was not to be
thought of. In this frame of mind she ascended in the elevator, and in a
moment stood before the doorway to their apartment. Everything seemed
the same--even the crack in the tinted plaster to the left of the door,
the smell of gas and cooking, the flickering gas jet in the hall. She
realized their familiarity, yet she might have been away for ages, so
far removed from her present life did they seem.

Donald opened the door, and quietly closed it after her, welcoming her
with grave politeness.

"Donald!" she cried, as he came toward her. "Where is Bobbie?"

"In his room," he replied.

"I want to see him."

"He's asleep."

He gazed at her exquisite pongee gown, her costly hat, the lace coat she
carried upon her arm, and frowned.

"How could you take the poor child away like that? It must have broken
his heart to leave all his things--his pony, and his boat, and all. Is
he well? Have you taken good care of him? You know how careful I always
am about what he has to eat."

Donald's frown deepened. "Bobbie is very well," he said slowly. "It
seems to me there is a bigger question between us than that."

"Can there be any bigger question than Bobbie?" she asked.

He gazed at her for a few moments in moody silence. "Did you come here
to tell me that?" he presently asked.

"No, Donald. I came to ask your forgiveness."

"You know the conditions under which I will discuss the matter," he
interrupted.

"Yes. You blame me for taking this money. You want me to give it up.
Don't you know that all I have done has been for him?" She glanced
significantly toward the door of the bedroom.

Donald stood for a moment in silence. He felt in this woman no sense of
sorrow, of repentance, but only a stubborn insistence upon what she
considered her rights.

"Was it for him that you agreed to abandon your home, your husband, and
run away with another man?" he asked bitterly.

She reproached him, pleading with her eyes, her voice.
"Oh--don't--don't!" she cried. "Can't you forgive me? Can't you?"

"Not until you show yourself worthy of forgiveness. You belong to him as
long as you accept his money."

She came up to him, her hands outstretched. "Donald!" she cried. "That
is what I want to talk to you about. I have been a very foolish woman.
I have done things that I can never forgive myself for as long as I
live. I am bitterly--bitterly--sorry. If it were not for our boy, I
would go away, and never trouble you again. I have been a miserable
fool, and I cannot blame you if you hate and despise me. I threw away
everything that was dear to me for nothing--nothing! Now I know that it
is your love and my boy's that I want more than anything in the world.
But, Donald, what has this money to do with what I have done? Will it
make it any the less wrong, to give it up? If you are really willing to
give me another chance, can't you do it without bringing this question
of money into the matter? Can't you do it because I am sincerely,
honestly repentant; because I love you, and want your love, your
forgiveness so much--so very much?" She put her hand upon his arm, and
there were tears in her eyes. "Donald, listen to me, please--won't you?"

"If you had come here in the same poor things you wore before all this
happened," he said, turning coldly from her, "it would be easier for me
to forget. What do you mean by flaunting this man's money in my face,
with your jewels--your finery?" He looked at her, and a feeling almost
of disgust crept over him. "Can't you see that everything about you
reeks of him?"

"Oh, Donald," she cried, "don't be angry with me--please don't. I didn't
think about my clothes--indeed, I didn't." She seemed unable to
understand that it was not her clothes he objected to, but what they
represented.

"You mean you did not think about my feelings. You never do think about
the things that count."

She turned away from him, sobbing. "Oh, don't! How can you say such
things to me? Isn't it the repentance of my heart that counts?"

"If there were any real repentance in your heart," he said, "you would
put those things from you as though they were polluted." He began to
walk up and down the room, unable to contain his anger.

Edith saw that upon the one point--that of West's money--he was
inflexible. She looked up with an air of resignation. "Very well," she
said suddenly. "I will do as you ask. I will give up this money. I will
never touch another penny of it as long as I live, but I want it put
aside for Bobbie."

"Never!" he cried angrily.

He had thought, when she began to speak, that she had yielded; her
concluding words told him that she was only quibbling.

"Donald, you can't mean what you say. Think of his future!"

"I don't want to argue the question," he exclaimed impatiently. "You
know perfectly well I will never consent to what you ask. It's
contemptible."

Again she began to sob. "How can you be so cruel? How can you?" she
moaned.

"Isn't it true?" he replied indignantly.

"It doesn't make any difference how you hurt me--I know I deserve
it--but you shall not take this chance away from my boy. It isn't right!
it isn't fair! Hurt me all you want to, revenge yourself upon me to the
best of your ability, but don't take it out on him. I am fighting for
his happiness, and I intend to give it to him."

"Then you are going about it in a very strange way. Let him grow up and
go out into the world with clean hands and a clear conscience; let him
know that truth, and right, and honor are more important than all the
money in the world, and I'll answer for his happiness."

"He need never know," she began.

"You know, and I know. I refuse to degrade myself, even for his sake."

"There is nothing I would not do for his sake."

"Nothing! The very first thing is to give up this shameful inheritance,
and you refuse to do it."

"It is for his sake that I refuse."

Donald turned away from her. There seemed no use in trying to appeal to
her sense of right.

"Donald," she began again, "if you will not let Bobbie have the money,
then give it to my mother."

"No, I won't do it, and I have told her so. Even your sister, it seems,
has decency enough to see that I am right."

"If Alice had been married eight years, and had a child, she might feel
differently."

"I hope not," he said, without looking at her.

Edith threw herself disconsolately into a chair. "You make everything so
hard--so very hard," she cried. "Is there nothing I can say that will
move you? Is your business in West Virginia nothing to you? Tell me,
Donald, are you willing to see that fail?"

He turned on her, indignant. "I did not think you would come here and
taunt me with that! Let it fail--a thousand times; let every cent I have
in it go, rather than owe its success to him!"

"How can you be so bitter?"

"Haven't you done enough to make me so?"

"If this business does fail, what then?"

He swept his hand about the room. "This," he said. "Whatever I
have--however little it may be--as long as it is honest."

She followed his gaze and shivered, as though the place chilled her.
"And you expect me to come back to such a life?" she asked bitterly.

"If you come back at all--yes."

"To cook, and scrub, and scrape, and save, and wear out my life like a
servant! Ugh!" She shuddered.

"So it was yourself you were thinking of, after all," he cried
scornfully. "After what you have done, you ought to thank God for the
chance."

She got up and approached him, holding out her hands appealingly. "Oh,
Donald--Donald!" she cried. "Please don't make me do this--please
don't. I can't stand it--indeed, I can't."

"I do not make you do it," he answered her. "I do not even ask you to do
it. You know the conditions under which you can return here. Do as you
please."

"Can't you show a little generosity? I had hoped to come to you and talk
over our affairs in a friendly spirit."

"There is nothing to talk over. You know your duty. There is only one
question, and that question is, are you going to do it?"

She stood for a long time, as though unable to make up her mind.
Suddenly she put the whole thing aside. "It is too big a question to
decide off-hand," she said, walking away from him, her hands clenched.
"Donald--" she turned--"I want to see Bobbie." She took a step toward
the bedroom door.

Donald stepped in front of her, blocking the way. "No!" he cried
passionately. "No!"

"Donald! Don't!" she exclaimed, alarmed at his manner.

"You cannot come in here."

"I cannot see my own child? You dare tell me that?"

"Yes. You shall not see him. You shall not go near him, until you agree
to do as I say."

"You shall not do this!" she cried, her eyes blazing. "It is
wrong--wrong!"

"Then come to your senses."

"Is it possible that you could be so cruel?" she asked slowly. "Is it
possible that you could deprive that innocent child of his mother's
love?"

"It is you who are depriving him of it--not I."

"Have you thought what it will mean, if you do this thing? Don't you
know that it will break his heart? Night after night he will cry for
me--for his mother--and you cannot comfort him, and all through the long
days he will want me, and ask for me, and will not understand. You talk
about giving him truth, and right, and honor. What are those things to
him, compared to a mother's love? You shall not come between me and my
boy--you shall not--you shall not!" She concluded with a burst of
hysterical sobbing, then again started toward the bedroom. "Open that
door!" she demanded. "Open it, I say! I want my boy!"

Donald did not move. "No," he said quietly. "Bobbie stays here with me."

"You cannot take him from me. The law will not allow you." Her face
blazed with angry defiance.

"I am not taking him from you. Your home is here. It is the best that I
can provide. If you are not satisfied with it--if you leave it--you
leave me and your child as well. No law can give him back to you."

She had grown furiously angry by this time. "Do you think you can force
me to do as you wish through my love for my child?" she cried.

"I am not trying to force you to do anything," he replied. "You came
here. I did not ask you to come. Whether you stay or not depends
entirely upon yourself. The decision is yours."

She turned quickly to the chair, and picked up her coat and purse.

"Very well," she said bitterly. "If you can be determined, so can I. I
shall demand my child in court. We shall see who has the better right to
him."

"You would not dare."

"You shall see." She started toward the door.

"You are making a terrible mistake," he warned her.

She paused, turning to him. "No," she said slowly. "It is you who are
making the mistake. I came here with nothing but love, and sorrow, and
regret in my heart. You have turned them all to hate, with your
cruelty--your brutality. You have tried to hurt me through my love for
my little boy, and I hate you for it--I hate you!" She swept toward the
door, weeping hysterically.

"I have asked you to do nothing but what is right, and you know it."

"No--I do not know it. Is it right to keep me from my child? Is it right
to ask me to sacrifice his whole future? If that is right--I want none
of it." She placed her hand upon the door-knob, and turned it. Donald
followed her, an ominous look in his eyes. "Edith--where are you going?"
he demanded.

"I am going back to New London. If you have any regard for me, if you
have any regard for your child, you will come to me there." She threw
the door open, and stood upon the threshold.

Donald approached her still more closely. "If you go out of that door,
you go out of my life forever," he said sternly. "I shall never come to
you--of that you may be sure."

"Very well--you--you brute!" she cried, and turned to go.

"Stop!" he cried, springing toward her.

"No. You have gone too far." She swept into the hall.

He took her roughly by the arm. "Come back here," he cried, beside
himself with fury. "Since you say I am a brute, I will act like one." He
pulled her forcibly into the room and slammed the door.

"Don't," she cried, resisting him. "Oh! You are hurting me--Donald!" She
looked at him in wonder.

"Be quiet!" he said. "I am not hurting you half so much as you are
hurting me. I have told you what you must do, and you have got to do
it."

"What do you want with me?" she cried, still struggling with him. "Let
go my arm--let go of me, I tell you! I want to go! Oh!"

"You shall not go."

"I will! You have no right to keep me here."

"Be quiet, I say." He forced her toward the center of the room.

She burst into tears. "How dare you treat me like this?" she cried. "How
dare you? Are you mad?"

"If I am, it is you who have made me so," he said, in a fury. "You talk
about love, and repentance, and you come here and insult and humiliate
me with every word you say--with everything about you. Whom do you have
to thank for that dress, that coat, those diamonds, that jeweled purse,
and the money in it? West! West! West!" He swept upon her a look that
made her eyes fall. "I tell you I won't have it--do you understand? I
won't have it!"

She stared at him in absolute amazement, and, with her wonder there came
a feeling of admiration, almost, at his mastery of her. Never before, in
all the eight years of their married life, had she seen him as he was
now--never before had he dominated her. She felt a child in his grasp,
and in some strange way her anger began to leave her, and a sense almost
of gladness at this primitive method of dealing with the problem which
confronted them swept over her.

"Donald," she called softly to him. "Donald!" but he did not hear her.

"You are my wife--mine, do you hear?" he cried, then tore from her arm
the jeweled purse, and flung it violently from him. "Take off those
things--take them off! The sight of them insults me!" He grasped the
lace coat she held over her arm, and threw it aside. "He gave you this
necklace--damn him!" he cried, tearing it from her neck, and throwing it
upon the floor.

She looked up at him, amazed. "Donald--listen to me--please!" she cried.

He paid no attention to her. "Do as I tell you," he commanded. "Take off
that stuff--take it off!"

She tremblingly removed from her fingers a diamond and ruby ring, and
another of pearls, which her mother had persuaded her to buy.

"Give them to me." He took the rings, and hurled them across the room.

"Donald, how can you treat me like this?" she protested weakly.

"I shall treat you as I like. Henceforth I am master in this house."

"You have no right--" she began.

He took her by the arm, and flung her to the floor. "Get down on your
knees," he said, "and thank God that you have your husband, and your
child, and a roof above your head."

She looked up at him in wonder. He seemed no longer the kind and patient
husband whom she had held in secret contempt because of what had seemed
to her his lack of force--of spirit. Here was a man who meant to be
obeyed.

"And, when you have done so," she heard him saying, "ask Him to help you
to be worthy of them. God knows you need it." He stood over her, looking
down at her with fierce determination.

She caught his glance, and her eyes fell. "You--you won't let me go?"
she faltered.

"No. Your place is here, and here you shall stay. I have stood all of
this folly that I intend to stand."

She buried her face in the pillows of the couch beside which she was
kneeling, and lay thus for a long time, shaking with sobs. Into her mind
had come a new emotion--a new understanding of her love for her
husband. Always before he had failed to master her, to make her feel
that in the conjunction of their two lives he was the dominant spirit,
willing even to govern her by force, when force seemed necessary to her
welfare. What had changed him so? What had caused him to keep her here,
at his side, against her will? What, indeed, but his love for her? She
knew it was that, knew that, had he been indifferent to her, he would
have let her pass from his life without lifting a hand to prevent it. A
fierce joy rose within her heart that this man desired her so
greatly--that he held her, as the primitive man held his women, by the
right of might. She wanted all the luxuries that had come to her--wanted
them still, but, compared with the joy of realizing that Donald still
loved her, they seemed as nothing.

So he had held her--meant to hold her, against everything in the
world--against even herself, and her own folly. She rejoiced in the
thought, and her sobbing ceased. After all--he--he and her little
boy--were more to her than anything that money could buy. Had Donald
temporized with her--allowed her to keep the money that had come to
her, she knew in her heart that she would have secretly despised him,
that in the end she would have ceased to love him. It seemed good to be
home again--good to be alive. She had always wanted someone to rule
her--she felt strangely humble, knowing her own weakness. Presently she
raised her head, and found him standing beside her. With a swift, eager
movement she grasped his hand.

"I'm so--very--very glad!" she sobbed, unable to keep back her tears. "I
did not--want--to go. I never--never--want to--go away from you--again."
She looked up, her eyes shining. "Donald--do you--still care for--me--a
little?" she asked, in a quavering voice. "Do you?"

Donald's sudden burst of rage had gone. He stood looking at her with a
deep sadness in his eyes. After all, she seemed so much a child. "Do you
think I would take the trouble to keep you here, if I did not?" he
asked.

She began to sob violently. "Donald--forgive me--forgive me!" she cried.
"I shall--never go away from you--and--Bobbie--as--long--as--I live."

[Illustration: "YOU--YOU WON'T LET ME GO?" SHE FALTERED]

He looked down, not understanding this sudden change in her. "I have
kept you here for the sake of our boy," he said slowly, "and here you
must stay. But, for your sake and mine, independent of him, you must
answer me one question. Were you West's mistress?"

She started to her feet, and dashed the tears from her eyes. "No!" she
cried. "Before God--no! I was just as bad, I know, for I intended to be,
but that one thing I had not done."

"Are you telling me the truth?"

"Oh, Donald, I am--I am!" she cried hysterically.

"Then there is still a chance for you, and for me," he said, his face
lighting up with sudden joy.

"Donald!" she cried; "Donald!" and tried to smile through her tears. As
she spoke, the door of the bedroom opened, and she heard a childish
voice. "Mamma!" it said, and Bobbie rushed up to her, and threw his arms
about her.

She reached down and clasped him to her breast. "My darling--my
darling!" she cried, as she kissed him.

"Mamma--I'm so glad you've come. I had such awful dreams. I dreamed
that you and papa were fighting, and I came and called, and you wouldn't
listen to me."

"Never mind, precious. It's all right now," she said, soothing him.

"Papa told me if I prayed very hard for you to come back, you would--and
you _did_, didn't you, mamma?"

"Yes, dear," she said; then looked toward her husband, and smiled
happily.

"And you won't ever go away and leave me any more, mamma?"

"No, Bobbie--never more." She rose, and, tearing off her hat, flung it
carelessly aside, then went up to her husband, holding out her hands.
"Donald," she said, "I am ready to do anything you wish--anything." She
appeared very happy, and looked at him with a new and almost girlish
embarrassment.

He held out his arms, and took her to his heart. "Edith!" he said; then
softly kissed her hair.

                              THE END.

 TITLES SELECTED FROM
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=HIS HOUR.= By Elinor Glyn. Illustrated.

A beautiful blonde Englishwoman visits Russia, and is violently made
love to by a young Russian aristocrat. A most unique situation
complicates the romance.

=THE GAMBLERS.= By Charles Klein and Arthur Hornblow. Illustrated by C.
E. Chambers.

A big, vital treatment of a present day situation wherein men play for
big financial stakes and women flourish on the profits--or repudiate the
methods.

=CHEERFUL AMERICANS.= By Charles Battell Loomis. Illustrated by Florence
Scovel Shinn and others.

A good, wholesome, laughable presentation of some Americans at home and
abroad, on their vacations, and during their hours of relaxation.

=THE WOMAN OF THE WORLD.= By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

Clever, original presentations of present day social problems and the
best solutions of them. A book every girl and woman should possess.

=THE LIGHT THAT LURES.= By Percy Brebner. Illustrated. Handsomely
colored wrapper.

A young Southerner who loved Lafayette, goes to France to aid him during
the days of terror, and is lured in a certain direction by the lovely
eyes of a Frenchwoman.

=THE RAMRODDERS.= By Holman Day. Frontispiece by Harold Matthews Brett.

A clever, timely story that will make politicians think and will make
women realize the part that politics play--even in their romances.

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=A CERTAIN RICH MAN.= By William Allen White.

A vivid, startling portrayal of one man's financial greed, its wide
spreading power, its action in Wall Street, and its effect on the three
women most intimately in his life. A splendid, entertaining American
novel.

=IN OUR TOWN.= By William Allen White. Illustrated by F. R. Gruger and
W. Glackens.

Made up of the observations of a keen newspaper editor, involving the
town millionaire, the smart set, the literary set, the bohemian set, and
many others. All humorously related and sure to hold the attention.

=NATHAN BURKE.= By Mary S. Watts.

The story of an ambitious, backwoods Ohio boy who rose to prominence.
Everyday humor of American rustic life permeates the book.

=THE HIGH HAND.= By Jacques Futrelle. Illustrated by Will Grete.

A splendid story of the political game, with a son of the soil on the
one side, and a "kid glove" politician on the other. A pretty girl,
interested in both men, is the chief figure.

=THE BACKWOODSMEN.= By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated.

Realistic stories of men and women living midst the savage beauty of the
wilderness. Human nature at its best and worst is well portrayed.

=YELLOWSTONE NIGHTS.= By Herbert Quick.

A jolly company of six artists, writers and other clever folks take a
trip through the National Park, and tell stories around camp fire at
night. Brilliantly clever and original.

=THE PROFESSOR'S MYSTERY.= By Wells Hastings and Brian Hooker.
Illustrated by Hanson Booth.

A young college professor, missing his steamer for Europe, has a
romantic meeting with a pretty girl, escorts her home, and is enveloped
in a big mystery.

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 TITLES SELECTED FROM
 GROSSET & DUNLAP'S LIST
 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

=THE SILENT CALL.= By Edwin Milton Royle. Illustrated with scenes from
the play.

The hero of this story is the Squaw Man's son. He has been taken to
England, but spurns conventional life for the sake of the untamed West
and a girl's pretty face.

=JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER.= By George W. Cable.

A story of the pretty women and spirited men of the South. As fragrant
in sentiment as a sprig of magnolia, and as full of mystery and racial
troubles as any romance of "after the war" days.

=MR. JUSTICE RAFFLES.= By E. W. Hornung.

This engaging rascal is found helping a young cricket player out of the
toils of a money shark. Novel in plot, thrilling and amusing.

=FORTY MINUTES LATE.= By F. Hopkinson Smith. Illustrated by S. M. Chase.

Delightfully human stories of every day happenings; of a lecturer's
laughable experience because he's late, a young woman's excursion into
the stock market, etc.

=OLD LADY NUMBER 31.= By Louise Forsslund.

A heart-warming story of American rural life, telling of the adventures
of an old couple in an old folk's home, their sunny, philosophical
acceptance of misfortune and ultimate prosperity.

=THE HUSBAND'S STORY.= By David Graham Phillips.

A story that has given all Europe as well as all America much food for
thought. A young couple begin life in humble circumstances and rise in
worldly matters until the husband is enormously rich--the wife in the
most aristocratic European society--but at the price of their happiness.

=THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT.= By Robert W. Service. Illustrated by
Maynard Dixon.

One of the best stories of "Vagabondia" ever written, and one of the
most accurate and picturesque descriptions of the stampede of gold
seekers to the Yukon. The love story embedded in the narrative is
strikingly original.

_Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_

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 TITLES SELECTED FROM
 GROSSET & DUNLAP'S LIST

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list

=THE SIEGE OF THE SEVEN SUITORS.= By Meredith Nicholson. Illustrated by
C. Coles Phillips and Reginald Birch.

Seven suitors vie with each other for the love of a beautiful girl, and
she subjects them to a test that is full of mystery, magic and sheer
amusement.

=THE MAGNET.= By Henry C. Rowland. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.

The story of a remarkable courtship involving three pretty girls on a
yacht, a poet-lover in pursuit, and a mix-up in the names of the girls.

=THE TURN OF THE ROAD.= By Eugenia Brooks Frothingham.

A beautiful young opera singer chooses professional success instead of
love, but comes to a place in life where the call of the heart is
stronger than worldly success.

=SCOTTIE AND HIS LADY.= By Margaret Morse. Illustrated by Harold M.
Brett.

A young girl whose affections have been blighted is presented with a
Scotch Collie to divert her mind, and the roving adventures of her pet
lead the young mistress into another romance.

=SHEILA VEDDER.= By Amelia E. Barr. Frontispiece by Harrison Fisher.

A very beautiful romance of the Shetland Islands, with a handsome,
strong willed hero and a lovely girl of Gaelic blood as heroine. A
sequel to "Jan Vedder's Wife."

=JOHN WARD, PREACHER.= By Margaret Deland.

The first big success of this much loved American novelist. It is a
powerful portrayal of a young clergyman's attempt to win his beautiful
wife to his own narrow creed.

=THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT.= By Robert W. Service. Illustrated by
Maynard Dixon.

One of the best stories of "Vagabondia" ever written, and one of the
most accurate and picturesque of the stampede of gold seekers to the
Yukon. The love story embedded in the narrative is strikingly original.

_Ask for compete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_

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 TITLES SELECTED FROM
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 REALISTIC, ENGAGING PICTURES OF LIFE

THE GARDEN OF FATE. By Roy Norton. Illustrated by Joseph Clement Coll.

The colorful romance of an American girl in Morocco, and of a beautiful
garden, whose beauty and traditions of strange subtle happenings were
closed to the world by a Sultan's seal.

THE MAN HIGHER UP. By Henry Russell Miller. Full page vignette
illustrations by M. Leone Bracker.

The story of a tenement waif who rose by his own ingenuity to the office
of mayor of his native city. His experiences while "climbing," make a
most interesting example of the possibilities of human nature to rise
above circumstances.

THE KEY TO YESTERDAY. By Charles Neville Buck. Illustrated by R.
Schabelitz.

Robert Saxon, a prominent artist, has an accident, while in Paris, which
obliterates his memory, and the only clue he has to his former life is a
rusty key. What door in Paris will it unlock? He must know that before
he woos the girl he loves.

THE DANGER TRAIL. By James Oliver Curwood. Illustrated by Charles
Livingston Bull.

The danger trail is over the snow-smothered North. A young Chicago
engineer, who is building a road through the Hudson Bay region, is
involved in mystery, and is led into ambush by a young woman.

THE GAY LORD WARING. By Houghton Townley. Illustrated by Will Grete.

A story of the smart hunting set in England. A gay young lord wins in
love against his selfish and cowardly brother and apparently against
fate itself.

BY INHERITANCE. By Octave Thanet. Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty.
Elaborate wrapper in colors.

A wealthy New England spinster with the most elaborate plans for the
education of the negro goes to visit her nephew in Arkansas, where she
learns the needs of the colored race first hand and begins to lose her
theories.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK

 A FEW OF
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THE MUSIC MASTER. By Charles Klein. Illustrated by John Rae.

This marvelously vivid narrative turns upon the search of a German
musician in New York for his little daughter. Mr. Klein has well
portrayed his pathetic struggle with poverty, his varied experiences in
endeavoring to meet the demands of a public not trained to an
appreciation of the classic, and his final great hour when, in the
rapidly shifting events of a big city, his little daughter, now a
beautiful young woman, is brought to his very door. A superb bit of
fiction, palpitating with the life of the great metropolis. The play in
which David Warfield scored his highest success.

DR. LAVENDAR'S PEOPLE. By Margaret Deland. Illustrated by Lucius
Hitchcock.

Mrs. Deland won so many friends through Old Chester Tales that this
volume needs no introduction beyond its title. The lovable doctor is
more ripened in this later book, and the simple comedies and tragedies
of the old village are told with dramatic charm.

OLD CHESTER TALES. By Margaret Deland. Illustrated by Howard Pyle.

Stories portraying with delightful humor and pathos a quaint people in a
sleepy old town. Dr. Lavendar, a very human and lovable "preacher," is
the connecting link between these dramatic stories from life.

HE FELL IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE. By E. P. Roe. With frontispiece.

The hero is a farmer--a man with honest, sincere views of life. Bereft
of his wife, his home is cared for by a succession of domestics of
varying degrees of inefficiency until, from a most unpromising source,
comes a young woman who not only becomes his wife but commands his
respect and eventually wins his love. A bright and delicate romance,
revealing on both sides a love that surmounts all difficulties and
survives the censure of friends as well as the bitterness of enemies.

THE YOKE. By Elizabeth Miller.

Against the historical background of the days when the children of
Israel were delivered from the bondage of Egypt, the author has sketched
a romance of compelling charm. A biblical novel as great as any since
"Ben Hur."

SAUL OF TARSUS. By Elizabeth Miller. Illustrated by André Castaigne.

The scenes of this story are laid in Jerusalem, Alexandria, Rome and
Damascus. The Apostle Paul, the Martyr Stephen, Herod Agrippa and the
Emperors Tiberius and Caligula are among the mighty figures that move
through the pages. Wonderful descriptions, and a love story of the
purest and noblest type mark this most remarkable religious romance.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK

Transcriber's note:

1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors;
otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's
words and intent.

2. In the advertising pages at the back of the book, titles were
underlined. These titles are enclosed between equal signs (example:
=SCOTTIE AND HIS LADY.=),