onsiderate to me, and, even after all these
years of matrimony, he is always the lover. A woman appreciates that,
Rudolph; she wants her husband to be always her lover, just as Jack is,
and never to give in when she coaxes--because she only coaxes when she
knows she is in the wrong--and never, never, to let her see him shaving
himself. If a husband observes these simple rules, Rudolph, his wife
will be a happy woman; and Jack does. In consequence, every day I live I
grow fonder of him, and appreciate him more and more; he grows upon me
just as a taste for strong drink might. Without him--without him--"
Anne's voice died away; then she faced Musgrave, indignantly. "Oh,
Rudolph!" she cried, "how horrid of you, how mean of you, to come here
and suggest the possibility of Jack's dying or running away from me, or
doing anything dreadful like that!"

Colonel Musgrave was smiling, "I?" said he, equably. "My dear madam! if
you will reconsider,--"

"No," she conceded, after deliberation, "it wasn't exactly your fault. I
got started on the subject of Jack, and imagined all sorts of horrible
and impossible things. But there is a sort of a something in the air
to-night; probably a storm is coming down the river. So I feel very
morbid and very foolish, Rudolph; but, then, I am in love, you see.
Isn't it funny, after all these years?" Anne asked with a smile;--"and
so you are not to be angry, Rudolph."

"My dear," he said, "I assure you, the emotion you raise in me is very
far from resembling that of anger." Musgrave rose and laughed. "I fear,
you know, we will create a scandal if we sit here any longer. Let's see
what the others are doing."

III

That night, after his guests had retired, Colonel Musgrave smoked a
cigarette on the front porch of Matocton. The moon, now in the zenith,
was bright and chill. After a while, Musgrave raised his face toward it,
and laughed.

"Isn't it--isn't it funny?" he demanded, echoing Anne's query ruefully.

"Eh, well! perhaps I still retained some lingering hope; in a season of
discomfort, most of us look vaguely for a miracle. And, at times, it
comes, but, more often, not; life isn't always a pantomime, with a fairy
god-mother waiting to break through the darkness in a burst of glory and
reunite the severed lovers, and transform their enemies into pantaloons.
In this case, it is certain that the fairy will not come. I am condemned
to be my own god in the machine."

Having demonstra