o ask if there was a letter
for him, but almost as it fell into the box he had it out and tore it
open, and then if the door closed despairingly the woman who had been at
the window all this time pressed her hand to her heart. But if the news
was good they might emerge presently and strut off arm in arm in the
direction of the pork emporium.

One last picture. On summer evenings I had caught glimpses of them
through the open window, when she sat at the piano singing and playing
to him. Or while she played with one hand, she flung out the other for
him to grasp. She was so joyously happy, and she had such a romantic
mind. I conceived her so sympathetic that she always laughed before he
came to the joke, and I am sure she had filmy eyes from the very start
of a pathetic story.

And so, laughing and crying, and haunted by whispers, the little nursery
governess had gradually become another woman, glorified, mysterious. I
suppose a man soon becomes used to the great change, and cannot recall a
time when there were no babes sprawling in his Mary's face.

I am trying to conceive what were the thoughts of the young husband on
the other side of the street. "If the barrier is to be crossed to-night
may I not go with her? She is not so brave as you think her. When she
talked so gaily a few hours ago, O my God, did she deceive even you?"

Plain questions to-night. "Why should it all fall on her? What is the
man that he should be flung out into the street in this terrible hour?
You have not been fair to the man."

Poor boy, his wife has quite forgotten him and his trumpery love. If she
lives she will come back to him, but if she dies she will die triumphant
and serene. Life and death, the child and the mother, are ever meeting
as the one draws into harbour and the other sets sail. They exchange a
bright "All's well" and pass on.

But afterward?

The only ghosts, I believe, who creep into this world, are dead young
mothers, returned to see how their children fare. There is no other
inducement great enough to bring the departed back. They glide into the
acquainted room when day and night, their jailers, are in the grip, and
whisper, "How is it with you, my child?" but always, lest a strange face
should frighten him, they whisper it so low that he may not hear. They
bend over him to see that he sleeps peacefully, and replace his sweet
arm beneath the coverlet, and they open the drawers to count how many
little vests he has. The