e,
and with explosive vigor clasped her in his arms.

"Oh, how you frightened me!" She had given a little squeal, and she
tried to release herself. "Let me go--please."

"Rot!" And he lifted her from the ground, and carried her across to
the bed.

"Will--let me go. I--I'm tired;" and she began to cry. "Be kind to me,
Will." The words came in feeble entreaty, between weak sobs. "Be kind
to me--my husband--not only now--but always."

She sobbed and shivered; and he, holding her in his arms, soothed her
with gentle murmurs. "My pretty Mav! My poor little bird. Go to
sleepy-by, then. Tuck her up, and send her to sleep, a dear little
Mav." At the touch of her coldly trembling limbs, at the sight of her
tears, all the sensual desire lessened its throb, and the purer side
of his love began to subjugate him. That was the greatest of her
powers--to tame the beast in him, to lift him from the depths to the
heights, to make him feel as though he was her father instead of her
lover, because she herself was pure and good as a child.
"There--there, don't cry, my pretty Mav."

And she, melting beneath the gentleness and tenderness of his
caresses, wept in pity of herself. "Yes, I'm tired--dead-tired." And
the tears flowed unchecked, blotting out emotion, reason, instinct,
swamping her in floods of self-pity. "Let me sleep--and let me forget.
Oh, let me forget what I've gone through these last two days."

"Anyways, it's over now."

"Yes, it's over. Oh, thank God in Heaven, it's over and done with."

"Just so." And there was a change in the tone of his voice that she
might have noticed, but did not. "Just so--but you're talking rather
strange, come to think of it."

His arms slowly relaxed, and he let her slide out of his embrace. She
sank down wearily upon the pillow, closed her eyes, and for a little
while went on talking drowsily and inconsecutively.

"Shut up," he said suddenly. "Hold your tongue. I'm thinking."

Then almost immediately he turned, and, with his hands upon her
shoulders, looked down into her face.

"Why didn't you go to church yesterday?"

"What did you say, Will?"

"I said, why didn't you go to church yesterday?"

"Oh--I really didn't care to go."

"That wasn't like you--you so fond of the Abbey Church. Did your Aunt
go?"

"Yes."

"You said this afternoon she didn't go."

"She did go. I remember now."

"Ah! Another thing! That actor-feller--what d'yer call 'im--him that
you counted on and