le Henry was, said she guessed he must be at
Mr. Meeks's; there's where he generally was when he wasn't at home.

It did not occur to Sylvia that she was lying, not even when, later
in the afternoon, Horace came home, and she answered his question as
to her husband's whereabouts in the same manner. She had resolved
upon Sidney Meeks's as a synonyme for the shoe-shop. She knew herself
that when she said Mr. Meeks's she in reality meant the shoe-shop.
She did not worry about others not having the same comprehension as
herself. Sylvia had a New England conscience, but, like all New
England consciences, it was susceptible of hard twists to bring it
into accordance with New England will.

The thunder-tempest, as Sylvia termed it, continued. She kept
glancing, from her station of safety, at the streaming windows. She
was becoming very much worried about Henry. At last she saw a figure,
bent to the rainy wind, pass swiftly before the side windows of the
sitting-room. She was on her feet in an instant, although at that
minute the room was filled with blue flame followed by a terrific
crash. She ran out into the kitchen and flung open the door.

"Come in quick, for mercy's sake!" she called. Henry entered. He was
dripping with rain. Sylvia did not ask a question. "Stand right where
you are till I bring you some dry clothes," she said.

Henry obeyed. He stood meekly on the oil-cloth while Sylvia hurried
through the sitting-room to her bedroom.

"Mr. Whitman has got home from Mr. Meeks's, and he's dripping wet,"
she said to Horace and Rose. "I am going to get him some dry things
and hang the wet ones by the kitchen stove."

When she re-entered the kitchen with her arms full, Henry cast a
scared glance at her. She met it imperturbably.

"Hurry and get off those wet things or you'll catch your death of
cold," said she.

Henry obeyed. Sylvia fastened his necktie for him when he was ready
for it. He wondered if she smelled the leather in his drenched
clothing. His own nostrils were full of it. But Sylvia made no sign.
She never afterwards made any sign. She never intimated to Henry in
any fashion that she knew of his return to the shop. She was, if
anything, kinder and gentler with him than she had been before, but
whenever he attempted, being led thereto by a guilty conscience, to
undeceive her, Sylvia lightly but decidedly waved the revelation
aside. She would not have it.

That day, when she and Henry entered the sitting