r; and Adriana looked at the silver Rose had sent
her, and as she thoughtfully closed the case, she said to herself:

"I am glad Antony comprehended that picture; glad that he understands
an Eternal Father who pities His children, because 'He knows their
frame, and remembers that they are dust.'"

CHAPTER VIII

No life is the same to-day as it was yesterday; and the passage of a
year necessarily makes many changes, though they may not be noticed by
the careless observer. Thus to all her friends Adriana Filmer's life
appeared to be precisely what it had been when Harry first brought her
to their pretty home near Central Park. But there were many vital
differences, though they were not readily detected. Adriana herself
had become still more grave and tender. She had been down into the
Valley of the Shadow of Death for her first-born son; and such a
passage cannot be made without leaving traces of its danger and
suffering. Physically, it had perfected her beauty; her face had some
new charm, her attitudes and manner were informed with a superb
dignity; and spiritually and mentally, it had added to the serious
strength of her fine character.

Harry was also changed. He yet loved with a sincere devotion his
beautiful wife and child, and he loved none other with the same noble
affection. But Adriana knew that there were lesser loves--flirtations
with reputable ladies who liked to drive with him--who enjoyed his
society on a pleasure yacht or a race course--who thought it quite
respectable to send him little messages, to accept from him small
services or such transitory gifts as flowers or sweetmeats. And Harry
liked this kind of popularity. Without consciously wronging Adriana,
he loved to sun himself in some beauty's smile, to be seen with some
young married siren, or to escort a party of gay girls to a
merry-making.

Usually he told Adriana of these affairs, and she was too wise to show
the pain the confidence gave her. Her state of health, as well as her
principles, kept her from many social functions, and if Harry did not
feel compelled to respect her condition and scruples, she knew that it
would be impossible to fret or scold or even reason him into sympathy.
She had been aware of the diversity of their tastes when she married
him; how, then, could she justly complain of circumstances which she
foresaw and accepted by the very act of marriage? Only once had she
spoken, and it was to her wise father. She co