e
papers really abused him, that Leonore was doubly tender to him, the
more, if he pretended that the attacks and abuse pained him. So he
brought her regularly now that organ of the Labor party which was most
vituperative of him, and looked sad over it just as long as was
possible, considering that Leonore was trying to comfort him.

"Oh, dear!" said Leonore. "That dreadful paper. I can't bear to read it.
Is it very bad to-day?"

"I haven't read it," said Peter, smiling. "I never read--" then Peter
coughed, suddenly looked sad, and continued--"the parts that do not
speak of me." "That isn't a lie," he told himself, "I don't read them."
But he felt guilty. Clearly Peter was losing his old-time
straightforwardness.

"After its saying that you had deceived your clients into settling those
suits against Mr. Bohlmann, upon his promise to help you in politics, I
don't believe they can say anything worse," said Leonore, putting two
lumps of sugar (with her fingers) into a cup of tea. Then she stirred
the tea, and tasted it. Then she touched the edge of the cup with her
lips. "Is that right?" she asked, as she passed it to Peter.

"Absolutely," said Peter, looking the picture of bliss. But then he
remembered that this wasn't his role, so he looked sad and said: "That
hurt me, I confess. It is so unkind."

"Poor dear," whispered a voice. "You shall have an extra one to-day, and
you shall take just as long as you want!"

Now, how could mortal man look grieved, even over an American newspaper,
with that prospect in view? It is true that "one" is a very indefinite
thing. Perhaps Leonore merely meant another cup of tea. Whatever she
meant, Peter never learned, for, barely had he tasted his tea when the
girl on the lounge beside him gave a cry. She rose, and as she did so,
some of the tea-things fell to the floor with a crash.

"Leonore!" cried Peter. "What--"

"Peter!" cried Leonore. "Say it isn't so?" It was terrible to see the
suffering in her face and to hear the appeal in her voice.

"My darling," cried the mother, "what is the matter?"

"It can't be," cried Leonore. "Mamma! Papa! Say it isn't so?"

"What, my darling?" said Peter, supporting the swaying figure.

"This," said Leonore, huskily, holding out the newspaper.

Mrs. D'Alloi snatched it. One glance she gave it. "Oh, my poor darling!"
she cried. "I ought not to have allowed it. Peter! Peter! Was not the
stain great enough, but you must make my poor child su