This was no unusual
thing. But it so happened that Edith's feelings were less under her
control than usual, and she answered the unkindness with a gush of
tears. This only tended to irritate her unfeeling husband, who said,
in a sneering tone,

"A woman's tears don't lie very deep. But it's lost time to use them
on me. I'll go where I can meet cheerful faces."

And then rising from the table, he put on his hat and left the house
to spend his evening, as usual, in more congenial society.

Edith dried her tears as best she could, and going to her chamber,
sought, by an effort of reason, to calm her agitated feelings. But
such an effort for a woman, under such circumstances, must, as in this
case, ever be fruitless. Calmness of spirit only comes after a more
passionate overflow of grief. When this had subsided, Edith remembered
that she had promised Mrs. Erskine, who lived only two or three doors
away, to come in and spend the evening. Had she consulted her feelings
now, she would have remained at home, but as she would be expected,
she rallied her spirits as much as was in her power, and then went in
to join her friend.

How different was the home of Mary to that of Edith. Mutual love
reigned there. The very atmosphere was redolent of domestic bliss. Mr.
Erskine was away when Edith joined Mary, and they sat and talked
together for an hour before he returned. A short time before Edith
intended going home, he came in, with his ever cheerful face, and
after greeting her cordially, turned to his wife, and spoke in a voice
so full of tenderness and affection, that Edith felt her heart flutter
and the tears steal unbidden to her eyes. It was so different from the
way her husband spoke. The contrast caused her to feel more deeply, if
possible, than ever, her own sad, heart-wrung lot.

Rising suddenly, for she felt that she was losing the control of her
feelings, Edith excused herself, and hastily retired. Mary saw that
something had affected her friend, and, with a look, made her husband
comprehend the fact also. He remained in the drawing-room, while Mary
passed with Edith into the hall, where they paused for a moment,
looking into each other's faces. Neither said a word, but Edith laid
her face down upon the bosom of her friend, and sobbed passionately.

"What is it that pains you, Edith?" Mary asked, in a low, tender
voice, as soon as her friend had wept herself into calmness.

Edith raised her face, now pale and com