“That seems to be the way with the papers, nowadays. Your father hears that the Events is making money.” “Why, mother! What a corrupt old thing you are! I believe you've been bought up by that disgusting interview with father. Nestor of the Leather Interest! Father ought to have turned him out of doors. Well, this family is getting a little _too_ good, for me! And Ben's almost as bad as any of you, of late,--I haven't a bit of influence with him any more. He seems determined to be friendlier with that _person_ than ever; he's always trying to do him good,--I can see it, and it makes me sick. One thing I know: I'm going to stop Mr. Hubbard's calling me Olive. Impudent!” Mrs. Halleck shifted her ground with the pretence which women use, even amongst themselves, of having remained steadfast. “He is a very good husband.” “Oh, because he likes to be!” retorted her daughter. “Nothing is easier than to be a good husband.” “Ah, my dear,” said Mrs. Halleck, “wait till you have tried.” This made Olive laugh; but she answered with an argument that always had weight with her mother, “Ben doesn't think he's a good husband.” “What makes you think so, Olive?” asked her mother. “I know he dislikes him intensely.” “Why, you just said yourself, dear, that he was friendlier with him than ever.” “Oh, that's nothing. The more he disliked him the kinder he would be to him.” “That's true,” sighed her mother. “Did he ever say anything to you about him?” “No,” cried Olive, shortly; “he never speaks of people he doesn't like.” The mother returned, with logical severity, “All that doesn't prove that Ben thinks he isn't a good husband.” “He dislikes him. Do you believe a bad man can be a good husband, then?” “No,” Mrs. Halleck admitted, as if confronted with indisputable proof of Bartley's wickedness. In the mean time the peace between Bartley and Marcia continued unbroken, and these days of waiting, of suffering, of hoping and dreading, were the happiest of their lives. He did his best to be patient with her caprices and fretfulness, and he was at least manfully comforting and helpful, and instant in atonement for every failure. She said a thousand times that she should die without him; and when her time came, he thought that she was going to die before he could tell her of his sorrow for all that he had ever done to grieve her. He did not tell her, though she lived to give him the chance; but he took her and her baby both into his arms, with tears of as much fondness as ever a man shed. He even began his confession; but she said, “Hush! you never did a wrong thing yet that I didn't drive you to.” Pale and faint, she smiled joyfully upon him, and put her hand on his head when he hid his face against hers on the pillow, and put her lips against his cheek. His heart was full; he was grateful for the mercy that had spared him; he was so strong in his silent repentance that he felt like a good man.