the old days. How comes it that we have traveled so far apart, we
who began together? It seems to me that some time you must come to your
senses and take up your life seriously, for this is not life, the sorry
thing you have lived lately, but I cannot wait any longer! I am tired,
tired, tired of waiting and hoping, too tired to do anything but drag
myself away from the sight of your folly. You have wasted our children's
substance, indulged your appetites until you have lost the respect of
your best friends, and you have made me--who was your choice, your wife,
the head of your house, the woman who brought your children into the
world--you have made me an object of pity; a poor, neglected thing who
could not meet her neighbors' eyes without blushing.

When Jack and his father returned from their outing at eight o'clock in
the evening, having had supper at a wayside hotel, the boy went to bed
philosophically, lighting his lamp for himself, the conclusion being
that the two other members of the household were a little late, but
would be in presently.

The next morning was bright and fair. Jack waked at cockcrow, and after
calling to his mother and Sue, jumped out of bed, ran into their rooms
to find them empty, then bounced down the stairs two at a time, going
through the sitting-room on his way to find Ellen in the kitchen. His
father was sitting at the table with the still-lighted student lamp on
it; the table where lessons had been learned, books read, stories told,
mending done, checkers and dominoes played; the big, round walnut table
that was the focus of the family life--but mother's table, not father's.

John Hathaway had never left his chair nor taken off his hat. His cane
leaned against his knee, his gloves were in his left hand, while the
right held Susanna's letter.

He was asleep, although his lips twitched and he stirred uneasily. His
face was haggard, and behind his closed lids, somewhere in the center
of thought and memory, a train of fiery words burned in an ever-widening
circle, round and round and round, ploughing, searing their way through
some obscure part of him that had heretofore been without feeling, but
was now all quick and alive with sensation.

You have made me--who was your choice, your wife, the head of your
house, the woman who brought your children into the world--you have made
me an object of pity; a poor, neglected thing who could not meet her
neighbors' eyes without blushing.

Any