"Understand, Frank, that if you don't withdraw what you have said before you leave the room, I shall take your words literally, and act upon them to the letter." "I understand that perfectly." "I shall go." "Then go! I do beg, my dear wife, that you won't stand upon the order of your going. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, so that it's just the time for a little excursion. I hope you'll have a happy Christmas." "I hope that your Christmas will be happier than mine is likely to be." "That is very good of you, I'm sure." He flared into sudden passion. "How fond you are of striking an attitude--your life is one continued pose. Do you suppose that I think you will go? Do you imagine that I don't know you better. You'll talk, talk, talk! and you'll pose, pose, pose! but you're as likely to go as I should be likely to fetch you back if you did go--unluckily for me!" He was gone, laughing as he went. His laughter was the final straw. That was what he thought of her! He set her down as simply a humbug; a windbag; a spouter of big words, which were all sound and had no meaning. She might threaten to go; he knew that her threats were but phrases. And he had laughed at her! Very good, he should see! He should learn if she was a person to be laughed at! She might have forgiven him much--everything--but his contempt. He would discover, quickly, if she was a doll, a puppet, an automaton, who could be made to gabble anything by pulling a string. She did not stop to think--being dimly conscious that if she did she might be impelled to listen to the whisperings of common sense; but, while her rage was still hot within her, she tore upstairs; put on something--she scarcely knew what; rushed to the station, and within a quarter of an hour was seated in a train which was flying along the rails to London. Then, when it was too late, and the thing was done, past undoing, she began to consider what the situation really was. She had the compartment to herself. On the seat in front of her was the copy of the Christmas number of an illustrated paper, which some passenger had left behind. It lay open at a page which caught her eye. She took it up. There were two full-page pictures, one was entitled "The First Christmas." A young husband clasped a young wife to his breast, while they regarded each other with looks of love. The second was called "The Last Christmas." The husband, grown old, was seated in an arm-chair, with bent back, and bowed head. The wife, her hair as white as snow, knelt on the floor beside him, her arms about his neck. They were as happy in each other's embrace as in the days of long ago, and their love was just as young. Edith's eyes filled with tears. That was how she had meant it should be with Frank and herself; their love should continue, showing no signs of the wear and tear of age, to the end. But--