epared for dissension.

He found his wife stitching by the fire. The door at the foot of the
stairs was closed. The room presented an aspect of cleanly, cheerful
comfort; but Stott entered with dread, not because he feared to meet his
wife, but because there was a terror sleeping in that house.

His armchair was empty now, but he hesitated before he sat down in it.
He took off his cap and rubbed the seat and back of the chair
vigorously: a child of evil had polluted it, the chair might still hold
enchantment....

"I've 'ad enough," was his preface, and there was no need for any
further explanation.

Ellen Mary let her hands fall into her lap, and stared dreamily at the
fire.

"I'm sorry it's come to this, George," she said, "but it 'asn't been my
fault no more'n it's been your'n. Of course I've seen it a-comin', and I
knowed it _'ad_ to be, some time; but I don't think there need be any
'ard words over it. I don't expec' you to understand 'im, no more'n I do
myself--it isn't in nature as you should, but all said and done, there's
no bones broke, and if we 'ave to part, there's no reason as we
shouldn't part peaceable."

That speech said nearly everything. Afterwards it was only a question of
making arrangements, and in that there was no difficulty.

Another man might have felt a little hurt, a little neglected by the
absence of any show of feeling on his wife's part, but Stott passed it
by. He was singularly free from all sentimentality; certain primitive,
human emotions seem to have played no part in his character. At this
moment he certainly had no thought that he was being carelessly treated;
he wanted to be free from the oppression of that horror upstairs--so he
figured it--and the way was made easy for him.

He nodded approval, and made no sign of any feeling.

"I shall go to-morrer," he said, and then, "I'll sleep down 'ere
to-night." He indicated the sofa upon which he had slept for so many
nights at Stoke, after his tragedy had been born to him.

Ellen Mary had said nearly everything, but when she had made up a bed
for her husband in the sitting-room, she paused, candle in hand, before
she bade him good-night.

"Don't wish 'im 'arm, George," she said. "'E's different from us, and we
don't understand 'im proper, but some day----"

"I don't wish 'im no 'arm," replied Stott, and shuddered. "I don't wish
'im no 'arm," he repeated, as he kicked off the boot he had been
unlacing.

"You mayn't never se