s just one of ourselves.

"'I was blue ribbon at that time, and we were putting a little money
by, and all was as bright as a new dollar. My God, whoever would have
thought that it could have come to this? Whoever would have dreamed it?

"'I used to be home for the week-ends very often, and sometimes if the
ship were held back for cargo I would have a whole week at a time, and
in this way I saw a deal of my sister-in-law, Sarah. She was a fine
tall woman, black and quick and fierce, with a proud way of carrying
her head, and a glint from her eye like a spark from a flint. But when
little Mary was there I had never a thought of her, and that I swear as
I hope for God's mercy.

"'It had seemed to me sometimes that she liked to be alone with me, or
to coax me out for a walk with her, but I had never thought anything of
that. But one evening my eyes were opened. I had come up from the ship
and found my wife out, but Sarah at home. "Where's Mary?" I asked.
"Oh, she has gone to pay some accounts." I was impatient and paced up
and down the room. "Can't you be happy for five minutes without Mary,
Jim?" says she. "It's a bad compliment to me that you can't be
contented with my society for so short a time." "That's all right, my
lass," said I, putting out my hand towards her in a kindly way, but she
had it in both hers in an instant, and they burned as if they were in a
fever. I looked into her eyes and I read it all there. There was no
need for her to speak, nor for me either. I frowned and drew my hand
away. Then she stood by my side in silence for a bit, and then put up
her hand and patted me on the shoulder. "Steady old Jim!" said she,
and with a kind o' mocking laugh, she ran out of the room.

"'Well, from that time Sarah hated me with her whole heart and soul,
and she is a woman who can hate, too. I was a fool to let her go on
biding with us--a besotted fool--but I never said a word to Mary, for I
knew it would grieve her. Things went on much as before, but after a
time I began to find that there was a bit of a change in Mary herself.
She had always been so trusting and so innocent, but now she became
queer and suspicious, wanting to know where I had been and what I had
been doing, and whom my letters were from, and what I had in my
pockets, and a thousand such follies. Day by day she grew queerer and
more irritable, and we had ceaseless rows about nothing. I was fairly
puzzled by it all. Sarah avoided me