he was appalled at what she found. Ever in her ears, too, was
that feared name, "Bob Seaver"; and ever before her eyes was that night
years ago when, as an eighteen-year-old girl, she had followed Bertram
and Bob Seaver into a glittering cafe at eleven o'clock at night,
because Bertram had been drinking and was not himself. She remembered
Bertram's face when he had seen her, and what he had said when she
begged him to come home. She remembered, too, what the family had said
afterward. But she remembered, also, that years later Bertram had told
her what that escapade of hers had really done for him, and that he
believed he had actually loved her from that moment. After that night,
at all events, he had had little to do with Bob Seaver.

And now Seaver was back again, it seemed--and with Bertram. They had
been seen together. But if they had, what could she do? Surely she could
hardly now follow them into a public cafe and demand that Seaver let
her husband come home! But she could keep him at home, perhaps. (Billy
quite brightened at this thought.) Kate had said that she was so
absorbed in Baby that her husband received no attention at all. Billy
did not believe this was true; but if it were true, she could at least
rectify that mistake. If it were attention that he wanted--he should
want no more. Poor Bertram! No wonder that he had sought distraction
outside! When one had a horrid broken arm that would not let one do
anything, what else could one do?

Just here Billy suddenly remembered the book, "A Talk to Young Wives."
If she recollected rightly, there was a chapter that covered the very
claim Kate had been making. Billy had not thought of the book for
months, but she went at once to get it now. There might be, after all,
something in it that would help her.

"The Coming of the First Baby." Billy found the chapter without
difficulty and settled herself to read, her countenance alight with
interest. In a surprisingly short time, however, a new expression came
to her face; and at last a little gasp of dismay fell from her lips. She
looked up then, with a startled gaze.

_Had_ her walls possessed eyes and ears all these past months, only to
give instructions to an unseen hand that it might write what the eyes
and ears had learned? For it was such sentences as these that the
conscience-smitten Billy read:

"Maternity is apt to work a miracle in a woman's life, but sometimes it
spells disaster so far as domestic bliss