asily
forget that I exist, and live your own life.'

'What have I done to make this change in you?'

'Is it a change?'

'You know it is.'

'How did I behave before?' he asked, glancing at her.

'Like yourself--kindly and gently.'

'If I always did so, in spite of things that might have embittered
another man's temper, I think it deserved some return of kindness from
you.'

'What "things" do you mean?'

'Circumstances for which neither of us is to blame.'

'I am not conscious of having failed in kindness,' said Amy, distantly.

'Then that only shows that you have forgotten your old self, and utterly
changed in your feeling to me. When we first came to live here could you
have imagined yourself leaving me alone for long, miserable days, just
because I was suffering under misfortunes? You have shown too plainly
that you don't care to give me the help even of a kind word. You get
away from me as often as you can, as if to remind me that we have no
longer any interests in common. Other people are your confidants; you
speak of me to them as if I were purposely dragging you down into a mean
condition.'

'How can you know what I say about you?'

'Isn't it true?' he asked, flashing an angry glance at her.

'It is not true. Of course I have talked to mother about our
difficulties; how could I help it?'

'And to other people.'

'Not in a way that you could find fault with.'

'In a way that makes me seem contemptible to them. You show them that
I have made you poor and unhappy, and you are glad to have their
sympathy.'

'What you mean is, that I oughtn't to see anyone. There's no other way
of avoiding such a reproach as this. So long as I don't laugh and sing
before people, and assure them that things couldn't be more hopeful, I
shall be asking for their sympathy, and against you. I can't understand
your unreasonableness.'

'I'm afraid there is very little in me that you can understand. So long
as my prospects seemed bright, you could sympathise readily enough; as
soon as ever they darkened, something came between us. Amy, you haven't
done your duty. Your love hasn't stood the test as it should have done.
You have given me no help; besides the burden of cheerless work I have
had to bear that of your growing coldness. I can't remember one instance
when you have spoken to me as a wife might--a wife who was something
more than a man's housekeeper.'

The passion in his voice and the harshness of the accusation