“You are better, I see,” Mrs. Aylett said abruptly to her brother. “You were not subject to these spells formerly. People generally outlive constitutional headaches--so I have noticed. It is queer yours should occur so often and wax more violent each time. You should have medical advice before they ripen into a more serious disorder.” Herbert shaded his eyes from the fire, and lay with out replying, until his wife believed he had relapsed into a doze. She was convinced of her mistake by his saying, slowly and distinctly,-- “You do not enter into Clara's whole meaning, Mabel. We have been careful, all of us, never to tell you that our father was imbecile by the time he was fifty and died, in his sixtieth year, of the disease your brother named this morning--softening of the brain. I, of all his children, am most like him physically. If it be true that this danger menaces me, you should be informed of it, and know, furthermore, that it is incurable.” Mabel also paused before answering. “I cannot assent to the hypothesis of your inherited malady, Herbert. These headaches may mean nothing. But let that be as it may, you should have told me of this before.” “You see,” broke in Mrs. Aylett's triumphant sarcasm. “The reward of your maiden attempt at conjugal confidence is reproof. What have I warned you from the beginning?” “Not reproof,” corrected Mabel, in mild decision. “My knowledge of the secret he deemed it wise and kind to withhold would have gained for him my sympathy, and my more constant and intelligent care of his health. It is the hidden fear that grows and multiplies itself most rapidly. Before it is killed it must be dragged to the light.” “That is YOUR hypothesis,” was the bright retort. “We Dorrances have justly earned a reputation for discretion by the excellent preservation of our own secrets, and those committed to our keeping by our friends. My motto is, tell others nothing about yourself which they cannot learn without your confession. An autobiography is always either a bore or a blunder. Not that I would regulate the number and nature of your divulgations to your wife, Herbert. As to Winston's unlucky hit this morning, it was mere fortuity. I have never felt myself called upon to enlighten him in family secrets, and his is an incurious disposition. He never asks idle questions. He has a marvellous faculty of striking home-blows in the dark, but that is no reason why one should betray his wound by crying out. Apropos to darkness, may I ring for a lamp, or will the light hurt your eyes?” “The fire-light is more trying,” rejoined Mabel, pushing a screen before the sofa, and placing herself where she could, in its shadow, hold her husband's hand. It was cold and limp when she lifted it, but tightened upon hers with the instinctive grip of gratitude too profound to be uttered.