ate.

"It would be no crime," she said. "Do you think God wants His world so
cumbered? Why should your life, other people's lives, be destroyed? Are
you to bear a burden like that for ever?"

"Sh-sh-sh!" he whispered again.

He put a hand upon her arm, and gently turned her with him. They began
to retrace their steps.

"I was right never to speak to you about it before," he said presently.
"Mutual confidences are for happy people, Kate. Men burthened with
great sorrows know them to be incommunicable. Forgive me that I for a
moment forgot."

Her passion had died away as quickly as it had blazed forth. She heard
him in silence, a sob in her throat.

Soon they were back in the perambulating crowd, chattering, laughing,
listening to the band upon the river. The broad stream was filled with
boats, in which charmingly-dressed women indolently reclined on
bright-hued cushions. The occupants propelled themselves by means of
lazy hands laid upon the sides of neighbouring boats. Be-flannelled
men, and boys in their slim canoes, slipped here and there among them.
The music mingled harmoniously with the light dip of the paddles, the
soft lapping of the water, the murmuring voices. The sweet scent of
hay, freshly cut in the meadows across the river, was in the air, the
peace of the midsummer evening over all.

Such a happy, prosperous throng; such a concord of sweet sounds and
scents and sights! One man and woman, at least, looked on,
sorrowful-eyed, bitterness within their hearts.

"I am sorry if I shocked you," Kate Grantley said at length. "I thought
if we two spoke together--even of that--face to face----"

"It is impossible," he said. "There are troubles in which no friend can
help, Kate. The friend that is dearest to me in life cannot help me in
mine."

He looked at her steadily, holding her eyes with his own, for a space;
then left her and went on his way.

He went into his house, the door of which stood open to the night.

In the airless, bow-windowed room, upon the untidy sofa where he had
left her, his wife was lying dead.

PART II

No inquest was held on Horace Kilbourne's wife. The doctor had attended
her almost daily. For years her husband had been warned her heart was
in such a condition that she might die suddenly, at any moment. She had
so died. Except that it was a happy release for herself, and for her
husband--that over-tired, good, and patient man--one of Heaven's
mercies, there was not