't," replied Henry, indifferently.

"I think that pink silk would be perfectly suitable and real becoming
if I crimped my hair and had a black lace bonnet to wear with it."

"I dare say."

Henry took his place at the supper-table. It was set in the kitchen.
Sylvia was saving herself all the steps possible until Horace Allen
returned.

Henry did not seem to have much appetite that night. His face was
overcast. Along with his scarcely confessed exultation over his
good-fortune he was conscious of an odd indignation. For years he had
cherished a sense of injury at his treatment at the hands of
Providence; now he felt like a child who, pushing hard against
opposition to his desires, has that opposition suddenly removed, and
tumbles over backward. Henry had an odd sensation of having
ignominiously tumbled over backward, and he missed, with ridiculous
rancor, his sense of injury which he had cherished for so many years.
After kicking against the pricks for so long, he had come to feel a
certain self-righteous pleasure in it which he was now forced to
forego.

Sylvia regarded her husband uneasily. Her state of mind had formerly
been the female complement of his, but the sense of possession
swerved her more easily. "What on earth ails you, Henry Whitman?" she
said. "You look awful down-in-the-mouth. Only to think of our having
enough to be comfortable for life. I should think you'd be real
thankful and pleased."

"I don't know whether I'm thankful and pleased or not," rejoined
Henry, morosely.

"Why, Henry Whitman!"

"If it had only come earlier, when we had time and strength to enjoy
it," said Henry, with sudden relish. He felt that he had discovered a
new and legitimate ground of injury which might console him for the
loss of the old.

"We may live a good many years to enjoy it now," said Sylvia.

"I sha'n't; maybe you will," returned Henry, with malignant joy.

Sylvia regarded him with swift anxiety. "Why, Henry, don't you feel
well?" she gasped.

"No, I don't, and I haven't for some time."

"Oh, Henry, and you never told me! What is the matter? Hadn't you
better see the doctor?"

"Doctor!" retorted Henry, scornfully.

"Maybe he could give you something to help you. Whereabouts do you
feel bad, Henry?"

"All over," replied Henry, comprehensively, and he smiled like a
satirical martyr.

"All over?"

"Yes, all over--body and soul and spirit. I know just as well as any
doctor can tell me that I haven'