Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1895-12-14

have been allowing every young jackanapes
| you met to speak to you while have been
| away grumbled he. My poor darling,
| indeed"'
| But, much to his amazement Constance
| burst out laughing
| She had been so gentle that he was pre-
| pared to find her humble, also, and ready to
allow him to get the upper hand again.
| You won't talk like that, WA you,
please?' she said, trying to repress her in
voluntary, bitter amusement. You must
be satisfied to know that 1 have behaved
rightly. according to my own ideas, as you,
| no doubt. have, according to yours"
| He glanced at her quickly, with rising
| flush of Indignation in his sullen face. But
he was abashed, and had the sense to say
| nothing.
Il am not going to worry you with any
| n oraliZing, any questions" she went on,
looking at the fire. Il would, of course, If
| cared; but don't. 1 will do what can for
you-take care of you till you are better able
| to go away. But-but that's ALL"
Then you are not going to make 1t up
again." whined he.
Constance looked at him quickly, and her
| eyes filled with tears. If there had been a
spark of affection in his tone-of longing for
| the warmth of his wife's heart, as distinct
| from power over her purse-she would not
| have been hard to him. But love for an
other and love returned had made her clear
| sighted.
She shook her head.
mo more than that" she said, gently.
| He kept his head bent for little while,
| looking at the fire. Then he nodded philo-
| sophically. After all, he had outgrown any
| feeling for his wife long ago. In the mean
| time he might think himself sure of roof
and a crust as long as she was in an engage
ment
We'll as you like" said he, at last.
Over her face there passed a curious look.
| In the pause that followed her own words
she had been woman enough to hope that he
| was going to coax, TO entreat. And she was
disappointed
She rose quickly from her chair
Il couldn't get another room in this
| house. said she, 80 I've got one next door.
| But it's a poky little place, not what you
| like, so you can have mine. l will have the
| one in the next house. Good night"
| "She waited one moment at the door, look
| ing at him curiously. He glanced up.
Thank you. Good night" said he.
In another moment she was outside the
| house. On the opposite side of the road a
man was standing. He crossed quickly over
| to her.
| Constance, want to see YOU
| "Cyrilr'
ooh, my poor child, what an experience for
| youi What are you going to do?"
| Then he stopped looking at her in amaze
| ment.
! "Why. I don't understand. You look hap
| pier than I have seen you for ever so long.
| Is it possible you care for-for him."
| Constance shook her head, smiling rather
| sadly.
Il wish it were possible" she said 81
| QOn [ care IOr nltI care Tor you. And yet,
| now that he has come back, I am happier
| than 1 was before. 1 am thanking heaven
| that he did come-in time. / was not so
strong as 1 pretended, Cyril. 1 was getting
| afraid"
| But Cyril looked impatient, miserable.
| you have sacrificed your lifev' said he
passionately.
"And saved my-what is it?-pride? Well.
| am satisfied, Cyril. A man can never un-
derstand a woman; don't understand my
| self. But I am happier tonight, knowing
| that 1 am out of danger, that there is to be
| no more struggling and no more question
| ing, than 1 was before"
| He will be a burden to you as long as you
| live
Il can't help that
| Constance, this is quixotism."
We'll, l can't help that, either. Good
| night
| And she disappeared into the house
When Tom Anderson died. six months
| later, Cyril Ardener was already the hus-
| band of Lillian Fairbrother. But Constance
was not unhappy, except in the fear that the
little coquette would make an Indifferent
| wife.
| She had been true to her best self; she had
gained victory which had made her strong.
| And to the end of her life she will congratu-
| late herself upon her very best performance
| (The end.)