Weary, one day, of her endless
knitting and crochet-work, she picked
up a magazine that Herbert had left
on the table. Looking over its
pages she came upon a little story
with neither signature nor initials at
tached to furnish a clew to the
author’s identity. There was a strong
undercurrent of passion and despair
too realistic to be lightly passed over
by the dalles' reader—such a one
even as poor Mary; and, contrary to
habit, she read it from beginning to
end. Why did it come to her now
with the force of a blow that Herbert
had written it? Why did she now
"ecognize herself in the ignorant,
daily-faithful wife of the sensitive
scaled hero?
She had never taken much notice
of Herbert's writing except in their
monetary value as representatives of
so many pounds of flour or tons of
coal. Now she began to wouder,
with a dash of crimson flaming on her
sallow cheek, if Herbert had writteu
many such things!
She anise like one whose only relief
lies in immediate action, and drawing
her veil over the poor, plain face
beneath, turned homeward. If Her
bert had written that sketch she could
surely find some pmof of it in his
study: a scrap of paper, a letter from
the editor, perhaps a rough draft of
the story itself—something. She
must know—she must!
* • * * *
Miss Chisholm, 1 did not hope to
meet you here!” Herbert Peunoyer
exclaimed, springing from his horse
and coming to Helen Chisholm’s side.
Marion was chatting confidently with
a friend a short disUnce away, and
Helen walked on down the tree shad
ed path with Herbert Peunoyer in at
tendance.
“I saw wife in the park this
afternoon,” she remarked almost im
mediately.
