must get rid of him.

But as she looked about the room something very like dismay assailed
her. There were the hated household duties confronting her; duties she
was longing to be free of, duties which she was tempted to abandon
altogether, with everything else that concerned her present sordid
life.

But Scipio knew none of this. His unsuspicious nature left him utterly
blinded to the inner workings of her indolent, selfish spirit, and was
always ready to accept blame for her ill-humors. Now he hurriedly
endeavored to make amends.

"Of course you can, Jess," he said eagerly. "I don't guess there's
another woman around who can manage things like you. You don't never
grumble at things, and goodness knows I couldn't blame you any, if
you did. But--but ther' seems such a heap to be done--for you to do,"
he went on, glancing with mild vengefulness at the litter. "Say," he
cried, with a sudden lightening and inspiration, "maybe I could buck
some wood for you before I go. You'll need a good fire to dry the
kiddies by after you washened 'em. It sure wouldn't kep me long."

But the only effect of his persistent kindliness was to further
exasperate his wife. Every word, every gentle intention on his part
made her realize her own shortcomings more fully. In her innermost
heart she knew that she had no desire to do the work; she hated it,
she was lazy. She knew that he was far better than she; good, even
noble, in spite of his mental powers being so lamentably at fault. All
this she knew, and it weakly maddened her because she could not rise
above herself and show him all the woman that was so deeply hidden
under her cloak of selfishness.

Then there was that other thought, that something that was her secret.
She had that instinct of good that made it a guilty secret. Yet she
knew that, as the world sees things, she had as yet done no great
harm.

And therein lay the mischief. Had she been a vicious woman nothing
would have troubled her, but she was not vicious. She was not even
less than good in her moral instincts. Only she was weak, hopelessly
weak, and so all these things drove her to a shrewish discontent and
peevishness.

"Oh, there's no peace where you are," she cried, passionately flinging
her book aside and springing to her feet. "Do you think I can't look
to this miserable home you've given me? I hate it. Yes, I hate it all.
Why I married you I'm sure I don't know. Look at it. Look round you,
and if you have an