acts that way. Now, there must be some reason
for it. No sane man is going to do a thing like that."

She looked away, a hot flush rising upon her face. She felt a distinct
longing for sympathy. There was something very engaging in this young
man's candid manner.

"I do not know who is to blame," she said at last, as if in answer to a
question. "I've tried to be a good wife to him for the children's sake.
I've tried to be patient. I suppose if I'd made the property all over to
him, as most wives do, at first, it would have avoided all trouble." She
paused to think a moment.

"But, you see" she went on suddenly, "father never liked him at all, and
he made me promise never to let the mill or the farm go out of my hands,
and then I didn't think it necessary. It belonged to us both, just as
much as if I'd signed it over. I considered he was my partner as well as
my husband. I knew how father felt, especially about the mill, and I
couldn't go against his wish."

She had the impulse to tell it all now, and she sat down on a bunch of
shingles, as if to be able to state it better. Her eyes were turned
away, her hands pressed upon each other like timid, living things
seeking aid, and, looking at her trembling lips, the young man felt a
lump rise in his throat.

"It began all at once, you see. I mean the worst of it did. Of course,
we'd had sharp words, as all people who live together are apt to have, I
suppose, but they didn't last long. You see, everything was mine, and he
had nothing at all when he came home with me. He'd had bad luck, and
he--he never was a good business man."

The tears were on her face again. She was retrospectively approaching
that miserable time when her suffering began. The droop of her head
appealed to the young man with immense power. He had an impulse to take
her in his arms and comfort her, as if she were his sister.

She mastered herself at last, and went on in low, hesitating voice, more
touching than downright sobbing: "One day, the same summer the mill
burned, one of the horses kicked at little Morty, and I said I'd sell
it, and he said it was all nonsense; the horse wasn't to blame. And I
told him I wouldn't have a horse around that would kick. And when he
said I shouldn't sell it, I said a dreadful thing. I knew it would cut
him, but I said it. I said: 'The horse is mine; the farm is mine; I can
do what I please with my own, for all of you.'"

She fell silent here, and Morris was forc