Alma record. (Alma, Mich.) 1878-1928, 1889-11-01
THE WIFE WHO COULD NOT COOK.

/ highly charged, and a tempest was not
! long in coming.
One day, Arthur went home to his
dinner feeling decidedly cross and UNI
comfortable.
Unfortunately. the meal was late;
but he said nothing, until, on sitting
down to the table, the beefsteak proved
TO be badly burned, and the potatoes
had an unpalatable look.
Il wish you would make your cook
give one something fit to eat, he ex-
claimed. This beefsteak is burned to
a crisp, and the potatoes are like
mush.
Irene looked at him in surprise.
=" Can't you speak," he cried, vehe-
menty.
" | don't see th1t the potatoes are
much worse than usual" said the
wife.
" Perhaps not, for they are nearly al
ways poor.
They are not always good, / know.
j spoke 10 cook this morning. She says
It's the fault of the potatoe s."
"She knows that you will believe any
thing she tells you. You know no
more about housekeeping, cookery es-
pecialy, than an Indian chief"
Z" indeed"
1--we kept silent as long as | could;
but even IL saints patience must give
way at last. "
Do you call yourself saint, Arthur
! Morton?n
:" GU are what the world calls ac-
complished, yet you are an ignoramus,
the young man went on, ignoring his
wife's sarcastic question.
-" You never brOiled beefsteak, I'll
/ be sworn. Perhaps il isn't altogether
/ your fault - girls are not brought up
to do anything useful. But we've been
married over year, and | think it's
time for you to have an interest in the
affairs of your kitchen"
! Irene rose from the BILE and rushed
| from the room, banging the door be-
/ hind her.
BY this time, Arthur had no appe-
/ tite. His anger had begun to subside,
! for it had found vent in words, and
! that is always a safe-valve. He started
up, and paced the floor uneasily for
several minutes.
Arthur Morton, you are foolr' he
said aloud, land you better 60 up
stairs and ask your wife's forgive
ness"
SO he went up stairs and entered
lrene's pretty sitting room. She was
there, reclining on lounge with her
face buried in the cushions.
i've been brute, dear" he said,
earnestly, "Can you forgive me?"
mo; | cannot. Please go away"
Don't be cruel, Irene. I'm gerry
| sorry that | talked sou
"Will you go away?"
Slowly he went back down stairs,
declaring to himself that he would not
again seek a reconciliation.
Weeks passed, and the husband and
wife were very miserable. Irene
reasoned that Arthur no longer
/ loved her. True, he was kind TO
her. nothing of the old watchtul care
was wanting, but the tenderness SEEM
cd gone out of il. Yet, perhaps all
would have been well had she not re-
pulsed him so coldly when he had
asked her TO forgive him. And now
they were drifting away from each
other, and foolish pride prevented her
/ from confessing how she regretted her
folly.
One afternoon, she found upon his
writing-table, an open note. Mechan-
ically, she took it up. Part of it had
been destroyed. That which was left
ran thus:
Remember, the steamer leaves at three.
! Do not fail me.
1t was written in u woman's hand.
What did it mean?
Would her pride allow her to ask an
explanation? Had she the right?
She found herself looking with new
impotence for his coming
! When it was nearly five o'clock, the
door bell rang, and her little waiting
maid announced Mr. Williams
Mr. Williams was Arthur's cousin.
He was an unmarried man Of about
thirty, and his handsome face bore un-
mistakable marks of dissipation. Irene
greeted him, coldly.
Il came to offer you my sympathy"
he said. Surely you will not assume
the mask OF happiness, now"
what do you mean?h she ques-
toned, haughtily.
arthur sailed for Europe two hours
ago."
ut is false, or some cruel mistaken
II beg your pardon saw him
standing on the deck with lady. II
few minutes before the steamer drew
anchor, and know that he vas among
the passengers.
She put out her hands, bliidly.
'Dear Irene" he began, but paused
as she turned her face toward him.
Her cheeks were crimson; her eyes
were flashing Indignantly.
Leave me, sir, at once" she said,
hoarsely'
VERY well; l will follow the ex-
am pie Of your husband" he said, as a
last cruel taunt, "a low bow accompany
ing his words.
| Alone, Irene stood one moment