Year: 1871

as she knelt beside her bed, her arms
upon it, her face hidden upon them
'can | bear it can bear it I"


Then her heart answered: "You
can; for if he does not love you, you
love him."


And she arose and stood beside her
baby's cradle, and saw its fathers eyes
look up at her from that, his tiny min.
iature, and took upon her gentle
shoulders the burden she had never
thought to bear.


That morning a letter had been
brought to her, an anonymous letter
accompanied by a packet. The letter
ran as follows:


"MADAM A friend, who does not
desire to see you imposed upon, sends
you these, to show you what man
may be. They were stolen from the
person from whom they were written
but the good intention sanctions the
means used to further it.


"A WELL-wIsHER."


The wife of two years had read
this, and had opened the packet.
There she found love-letters, written
| to some woman who was addressed
as Olivia, and dated one year before
| her own marriage-letters that told
the story of a passion warmer than it
was pure, for she who had awakened
it was evidently a wife-letters such
as George Chesterfield had never
written to the woman who now read
them. Following them came this,
dated on the very day before their
Marriage


DEAR OLIvIA-DEAREsT OLIVIA:
i shall write no more to you. |
shall never say q word of love to You
again, for | am about TO place myself
in position which makes it my duty
to forget you. | am to be married
tomorrow. | have done this To tear
myself more completely from you.
You have often told me that | should
You are right. \ man in love cannot
trust himself For my sake--may /
say for yours, also, Olivia ?-I take
this step. OF course, | do not love
this girl but she is pure, good wo-
man, and | respect her. They call
her beautiful, also; hut only your face
will be quite beautiful in my eyes. 1t
rises before me as | say adieu. 1t
will haunt me always, but here part
from il. Earewell-tarewell, as though
| were dying. Perhaps in heaven We
may meet again, and there be all in
all to each other. Yours forever,


GEORGE CHESTERFIELD"


Helen Chesterfield read this through,
knew it TO be genuine, and cried out
in her great agony, ''Oh, why did | not
die upon that happy wedding day :?
Why did live for this 2"


Then for two long hours she knelt
beside her pillow, struggling with her
self, struggling until, at last, her heart
gave her the answer we have already
written down: "fes, you can bear
it; for though he does not love you,
you still love him"


Then the poor wife tore into frag-
ments those passionate love letters,
and that final one which seemed her
death wound, the whole cruel packet
that had brought her SO much woe,
and burnt them to ashes on her hearth,
and vowed that while she lived
her husband should never know that
she had read them.


"For he has not deceived me-" she
said to herself. .'He has been true to
me, honorable to me- That he has
been sorely wounded should not make
me hate him, and he shall never know,
if | can help it, how | suffer. lie is
always kind, oh, heaven pity me al
ways kind; that must suffice me-"


And SO she met him, with her babe
in her arms, as calmly as she had part
ed from him.


He never saw the great change in
her. lie never knew that from that
hour life lost its beauty for her-that
even the brightness of her love for
her babe had faded, because she knew
that its father had not loved her. No
one knew anything, save that the
roundness left her cheek-that her
eyes lost half their sweetness-that
she indulged in those moments of re-
poscful reverie of which she had once
been so fond. Work was her refuge,
and she dared not pause to think.


People called the Chesterfields a
happy couple. Women envied her
for he seemed model husband. She
locked her skeleton carefully up, and
gave no one peep at it.


Years flew by. Two other babies
took the first baby's place. George
Chesterfield grew rich. She had
helped him to become SO by frugality
and unselfshness and now it was a
pleasure to him to give her the means
of doing good among the poor. Helen
Chesterfeld's carriage was oftener
found waiting at the door of some
wretched abode than at those of her
fashionable friends. She was happy
in doing good.


One day woman in the most
wretched haunt into which she had
ever carried her pure presence, spoke
to her of another lying i'll in the next
room.


"She's been lady, ma'am,n she said
s9but she's come down dreadful. ]
think you'd do her good.'


And Helen Chesterfield followed
her into a room, where, upon a bed
lay the wreck of the loveliest woman
on whom Helen's gaze had ever rested
"a blonde with black eyes, whose
golden hair swept over her pillow
down upon the floor as she lay
creature with white hands and snowy
throat, but. with 4lost" stamped upor
her features as though it had beer
written there.


She looked at Helen angrily.
! nMore tracts % she asked il a harsl
voice. sTake them away, then. It'i