n in any degree simulated, her eyes now, as well
as her ears, would have taken positive assurance of his departure.
But with the removal of her handkerchief, the loathsome sight of the
dinner-table would have saluted her, and it had already caused her
suffering enough. She chose to remain as she was, saying to herself,
"I am dead;" and softly revelling in that corpse-like sentiment. She
scarcely knew that the door had opened again.

"Dahlia!"

She heard her name pronounced, and more entreatingly, and closer to her.

"Dahlia, my poor girl!" Her hand was pressed. It gave her no shudders.

"I am dead," she mentally repeated, for the touch did not run up to her
heart and stir it.

"Dahlia, do be reasonable! I can't leave you like this. We shall be
separated for some time. And what a miserable fire you've got here! You
have agreed with me that we are acting for the best. It's very hard
on me I try what I can to make you comf--happy; and really, to see you
leaving your dinner to get cold! Your hands are like ice. The meat won't
be eatable. You know I'm not my own master. Come, Dahly, my darling!"

He gently put his hand to her chin, and then drew away the handkerchief.

Dahlia moaned at the exposure of her tear-stained face, she turned it
languidly to the wall.

"Are you ill, my dear?" he asked.

Men are so considerately practical! He begged urgently to be allowed to
send for a doctor.

But women, when they choose to be unhappy, will not accept of practical
consolations! She moaned a refusal to see the doctor.

Then what can I do for her? he naturally thought, and he naturally
uttered it.

"Say good-bye to me," he whispered. "And my pretty one will write to me.
I shall reply so punctually! I don't like to leave her at Christmas;
and she will give me a line of Italian, and a little French--mind
her accents, though!--and she needn't attempt any of the nasty
German--kshrra-kouzzra-kratz!--which her pretty lips can't do, and won't
do; but only French and Italian. Why, she learnt to speak Italian! 'La
dolcezza ancor dentro me suona.' Don't you remember, and made such fun
of it at first? 'Amo zoo;' 'no amo me?' my sweet!"

This was a specimen of the baby-lover talk, which is charming in its
season, and maybe pleasantly cajoling to a loving woman at all times,
save when she is in Dahlia's condition. It will serve even then, or she
will pass it forgivingly, as not the food she for a moment requires;
but it must be pur