t Beth to the quick. It was the
first cloud that had come to overshadow the perfect sympathy of their
intercourse. She was getting his tea at the moment, and, when it was
ready, she put it beside him and retired to his attic, which she
occupied, and looked at herself in the glass for the first time since
she had sacrificed her pretty hair. At the first glance, she laughed;
then her eyes filled with tears, and she threw herself on the bed and
sobbed silently--not because she regretted her hair, but because he
was hurt, and for once she had no comfort to give him.

Just after she left him, an artist friend of his, Gresham Powell, came
in casually to look him up, and was surprised to find he had been so
ill.

"I missed you about," he said, "but I thought you had shut yourself up
to work. Who's been looking after you?"

Brock gave him the history of his illness.

Powell shook his head when he heard of Beth's devotion.

"Take care, my boy," he said. "The girls you find knocking about town
in these sort of places are not desirable associates for a promising
young man. They're worse than the regular bad ones--more likely to
trap you, you know, especially when you're shorn of your strength and
have good reason to be grateful. You might think you were rewarding
her by marrying her; but you'll find your mistake. Look at Simpson!
Could a man have done a girl a worse turn than he did when he married
Florrie Crone? They haven't a thought in common except when he's ill
and she nurses him; but a man can't be always getting ill in order to
keep in touch with his wife. I don't know, of course, what this girl's
like; but half of them are adventuresses bent on marrying gentlemen.
Is she a clergyman's daughter, by any chance?"

"I know nothing about her but her name," Brock answered coldly. "She
has never tried to excite sympathy in any way."

"Well, they are of all kinds, of course," said Powell temperately.
"But you'd better break away in any case. Nothing will set you up so
soon as a change. Come with me. I'm going into the country to see the
spring come in, and the fruit trees flower, and to hear the
nightingales. I know a lovely spot. Come!"

"I'll think about it, and let you know," Arthur Brock answered to get
rid of him.

When he had gone Beth appeared. To please Arthur, she had covered her
cropped head with a white muslin mob-cap bound round with a pale pink
ribbon, and put on a high ruffle and a large white apron, in wh