I tried at first, but I was obliged to give up, and let him go. I ought never to have been his wife. I loved him too well. Oh, Barnes!" her self-control vanishing all at once, and a helpless sob breaking her voice, "you don't know how I loved him! Nobody knows. He did not know, himself. He knew least of all. He was so handsome, and so grand, and so gay! And it was like heaven at first; just the first weeks, when he was fond of me, and we were on our bridal tour. But I was not a brilliant, clever woman, and people praised him so much, and my heart failed me; and then, at last, I seemed to wake up all at once, and know that everything was gone! Everything! I could not bring it back.

"I used to lie on the floor of my room," she went on, after a silence, "all alone, when he was away, those dreary winter days, and the sobs would rise in my throat so fast that they choked me, and I thought I should die. It was so terrible to know that he had loved me once, and that, after all, his love had died such an easy, natural death. It made me think that nothing was true, and that he was only like the rest of the world; that it was only because love could not last, and never did. By the time Geordie was born, I had given all up, quite, and a sort of dull quiet seemed to have settled upon me, and I did not try any more. I knew happiness was not for me. I have not even asked for it since, and perhaps I have grown cold in manner through living so much within myself. The children are all that seems left of me, and I forget others. I am not like other women; and if I have been unkind, you must forgive me. I have always thought of you as my friend, Barnes, and I have always felt that I could trust you.

There was a long pause after she ceased. Barnes had understood her better, even, than she had understood herself.

"And tell you me this because you are afraid I may have misunderstood you?" he said at last.

"Yes," she answered, with slight hesitance.

He turned his honest, tender eyes upon her, and she was forced to meet them; and then she knew how poor and weak her little subterfuge must have appeared to him, and she could neither brave it out, nor defend herself. But he was as tender of her as ever.

"No, don't be sorry, Pen," he said. "I do not misunderstand you after all. I think I see what you have meant to do, and I am sure you meant to be kind in your woman's way.

Suppose I am frank with you. To-day you have seen, for the first time, that I stay here because I love you; and being so weary of life, you think you have no heart to give me. You are sure you have none, and you wish to spare me the pain of hope deferred. So you have told me the story to show me that love is over for you, and cannot be stirred to new existence for me. Is not that it, Pen? Don't be afraid of hurting me by saying that it is. During these long years I have learned to bear life's chances with a kind of patience.'

“I—” said Pen, faltering, "I- Oh, Barnes, forgive me!" "Not forgive," he answered. "Don't say 'forgive.' I have loved you too long for that word to come between us at this late day. I have loved you all my life, Pen, and you have not seen it. I loved you when you came, a child, to my mother's house; and I loved you when you bade us good-by, in your happiness and hope. Even now I cannot promise that my love shall die out; but it shall never trouble you, my dear. Never!"

He looked at once brave and kindly, and worthy of any woman's admiration, as he rose and stood before her, holding out his hand. She could hardly understand that, in this short time, all was over, and that he meant to put an end to her pain and embarrassment with this quiet gesture.

Pen's mind was in a strange tumult as they walked home together. She scarcely understood her own feelings. She was tremulous, excited, and pale. Barnes was far the calmer of the two. On his part, he was only grave and silent. And yet he had just told her what she had never for an instant suspected before, that he had loved her all his life. A few hours ago she had been a little angry with him, and now she felt that it was she who had presumed: and she dared scarcely look in his face. To think that she had been so blind! There was a certain dignity in the idea of his long-suffering and patience; a suffering which did not cry out or bewail itself, but was silent from first to last.

She did not know what impulse prompted her to do such a thing, but when they reached the house, she could not help speaking to him in timid appeal:

"Don't go away, Barnes," she said. "Don't go away from Florence."

"No," he answered. "Not if you care that I should remain. I have learned to love the place, as you said I would."

The winter passed away, and matters seemed to have made

little or no progress. Only Mademoiselle wondered within herself as she looked on. Pen had become more attentive to her children than ever; there was even an eager anxiety in her treatment of them, as if she wished to make up for some secret wrong or neglect. Her attendance upon them was so constant and unremitting, indeed, that she lost flesh and color with unnecessary overexertion. She was even thinner and more fragile-looking than at first, Barnes thought, on the spring morning when he came to speak to her of his plans.

"You will not remain in Italy much longer, Pen," he said to her. "It will be too warm here in another month."

66

Yes, for the children," she remarked.

"I do not care about myself; but I always take the children to Switzerland for the summer.

"It is plain you do not care for yourself," he said, “and that is what I wish to speak to you about, before I go away. I must go at one time or another, you know. I cannot remain here always; and now, since you will leave Florence, too, I thought I might as well pack my knapsack again." "Yes," she said hesitatingly, "I suppose so. here already."

It is warm

"But I could not leave you," he continued, "without a few words of warning and caution. You are wearing yourself out, Pen. You are too anxious a mother. You let your children demand too much of you, and they cannot spare you.' "Spare me?" she exclaimed. "They could not live with

"Then take better care of yourself, and give yourself more rest," he said. "You have neither color, nor strength, nor appetite. I have no right to say this; but I am not blind, and I should bid you good-by with a lighter heart if you would promise to remember your own needs."

"I will promise," quite humbly. "You are quite good to me, Barnes." And then, in a lower voice, "When are you going away?"

"To-morrow."

"That seems very soon," was her reply.

It might have been their last interview, for Barnes began to make his preparations that evening. He went sadly about his two rooms, collecting his belongings one by one, and laying them aside. His heart was heavy within him. He had strapped his last trunk, and was bending over his valise, pipe