nd woman. He had never analyzed
the nature of his love for Mary,--as soon would he have torn away the
petals of Mary's budding roses to see what was at their heart,--and he
did not know that the charm that had drawn him to her and kept him her
lover through three years of married life, was not alone her sweet,
unselfish nature, but the exquisite health that made work a pleasure,
the perfect equilibrium of nerve and brain that kept a song on her lips,
that made her step like a dance, and her mere presence a spell to soothe
and heal. His heart sank at the thought of her losing these. He had
always shielded her from the heavy drudgery that farm life brings to a
woman, and now he called memory to the witness stand and sternly
questioned her concerning the cause of this sudden change. She had been
having a good deal of company lately, but then Mary enjoyed company. She
had never complained about the unusual number of callers, but who ever
heard Mary complain about anything? She was not the complaining kind.
John was not a psychologist, and could not know the danger to nerve and
brain that lies in enforced--even self-enforced--submission to
unpleasant circumstances, but his brow darkened as he thought of her
words: "Nearly everything new was cut out by my chart." And yet, what
right had he to blame the neighbors for their thoughtlessness? If he,
Mary's husband, had not been considerate of her health and happiness,
why should he expect the neighbors to be so?

"It's all my fault at last," he thought remorsefully, as he leaned over
the sleeping woman and brushed away an insect that had lighted on her
gold-brown hair.

Yes, there were faint lines around her mouth and under her eyes, and the
contour of her cheek was not as girlish as it had been a month ago.

"If that chart was at the bottom of the trouble--" But again why should
he blame the chart or the agent, when the main fault was his?

Taking off his coat, he laid it gently over her shoulders and seated
himself so that the shadow of his body would screen her from a ray of
sun that lay across her closed eyelids.

The minister's voice rose and fell in earnest exhortation. He was
preaching an unusually long sermon that morning, and John was glad, for
the longer his sermon, the longer would be Mary's sleep. As for himself,
he needed no sermon within church walls. He was listening to the voice
of his conscience preaching to him of things undone and of judgment to
come.

"