painters gave to their
saints. It was a picture of Thorne's mother and it hurt him to see it
there. He determined to have it removed as soon as possible.

The door opened and Mrs. Thorne entered, feeling herself terribly
ill-used and persecuted, in that her husband had elected to come to her
in person, instead of availing himself of the simpler and more
agreeable mode of communication through their lawyers. It was quite
possible that he would make himself disagreeable. Mrs. Thorne shrank
from any thing disagreeable, and had no tolerance for sarcasms
addressed to herself. She would have refused the interview had she
dared, but in her heart she was dimly afraid of her husband.

Thorne bowed coldly, and then placed a chair for her on the hearth-rug.
"Sit down," he said, "I want to talk to you," and then he seated
himself opposite her.

For awhile he did not speak; somehow the words he had come to say stuck
in his throat; it was so cold-blooded for them, husband and wife, to
sit there beside their own hearth and discuss their final separation.
A log, which had burned in half, fell and rolled forward on the marble
hearth, sending little puffs of gray smoke into the room. He reached
past her for the tongs and laid the log back in its place, and the
little action seemed to seal his lips more closely. The tiny clock on
the carved oak mantle chimed the hour in soft, low tones; he counted
the strokes as they fell, one, two, and so on up to twelve. The winter
sunshine streamed in between the parting of the curtains and made a
glory of his wife's golden hair.

Ethel was the first to speak. "You got my letter?" she questioned,
keeping her eyes fixed on the fire.

"Yes; that is the reason I'm here."

The broken log was blazing again quite merrily, the two ends far apart.

"Why not have written instead of coming?" she demanded, as one who
protested against some grievous injury; "it would have been far
pleasanter for both. There's no sense in our harassing ourselves with
personal interviews."

"I preferred a personal interview."

Ethel lapsed into silence; the man was a hopeless brute, and it was
useless to expect courtesy from him. She tapped her foot against the
fender, and a look of obstinacy and temper disfigured the soft outlines
of her face. The silence might remain unbroken until the crack of doom
for any further effort she would make.

Thorne broke it himself. He was determined to carry his point, and i