hing to be said. Unless Kilbourne himself, in
remembrance of other days, and in the tenderness of his heart, shed a
tear for her, there was not a soul to weep for drunken Julia Kilbourne.

Although, to the best of his ability, he had lived retired from all
society, and in his sensitiveness to his wife's shame had kept, as well
as he could, her history to himself, it was well known in the town.
There was none who knew who did not respect and pity him. Kind hands
were eagerly put out to him. At last he, who had shrunk from going to
other men's houses because he could not ask them to his own, was free
to do so.

It was a little disappointing that he repulsed all such advances.

The only adverse criticism which had been passed on him had been that,
a heavily burthened man, he had not known how to conceal his
misfortune, but had carried about with him a face as miserable as his
history. That his face would now bear witness to his new-found delight
of liberty was confidently expected.

It was strange that, instead of the looked-for lightening of gloom,
there was, if possible, in his bearing, his wife being safely dead and
buried, an increase of melancholy.

Kate Grantley, who thought she knew him better than the rest, was not
surprised that the little letter she wrote him on the first news of Mrs
Kilbourne's death remained unanswered. The words her pen had written
had come warm from a heart realising the shock, the bewilderment, from
which it was inevitable that he must suffer. But it was a letter which
it would have been painful to him to answer, perhaps. He had known that
she would understand.

She would not be hurt that he ceased to linger for her at the hour they
both came out of school. Often she walked to the street which held her
home and his, with his tall figure a dozen yards in front of her. She
would not hurry a step to overtake him. All in good time. She no more
doubted him--she no more doubted that in due time he would ask her to
be his wife--than she doubted what her answer would be when he did so.
Between them there had been no vulgar philandering; no word of what
might have been, what yet might be, had passed their lips. Yet, deep in
their hearts was guarded an unspoken compact which--she would have
staked her life on it--neither would betray.

But she was unpleasantly startled, coming face to face with him one
day, he walking down his garden path, which she was passing, to find
that he did not even pu