Day in, day out, the little wife sat at her window, and drove her needle. Omnibuses rumbled by; an occasional wagon or cart set the dust a-flying; the street venders passed, crying the praises of their goods and wares; the blue sky grew more and more intense as weeks piled up upon weeks; but the empty repetitions, and the isolation, and, worst of all, the escape of time,--she smiled at all, and sewed on and crooned on, in the sufficient thought that John would come, each time, when only hours enough had passed away forever. Once she saw Dr. Sevier's carriage. She bowed brightly, but he--what could it mean?--he lifted his hat with such austere gravity. Dr. Sevier was angry. He had no definite charge to make, but that did not lessen his displeasure. After long, unpleasant wondering, and long trusting to see Richling some day on the street, he had at length driven by this way purposely to see if they had indeed left town, as they had been so imperiously commanded to do. This incident, trivial as it was, roused Mary to thought; and all the rest of the day the thought worked with energy to dislodge the frame of mind that she had acquired from her husband. When John came home that night and pressed her to his bosom she was silent. And when he held her off a little and looked into her eyes, and she tried to better her smile, those eyes stood full to the lashes and she looked down. "What's the matter?" asked he, quickly. "Nothing!" She looked up again, with a little laugh. He took a chair and drew her down upon his lap. "What's the matter with my girl?" "I don't know." "How,--you don't know?" "Why, I simply don't. I can't make out what it is. If I could I'd tell you; but I don't know at all." After they had sat silent a few moments:-- "I wonder"--she began. "You wonder what?" asked he, in a rallying tone. "I wonder if there's such a thing as being too contented." Richling began to hum, with a playful manner:-- "'And she's all the world to me.' Is that being too"-- "Stop!" said Mary. "That's it." She laid her hand upon his shoulder. "You've said it. That's what I ought not to be!" "Why, Mary, what on earth"-- His face flamed up "John, I'm willing to be _more_ than all the rest of the world to you. I always must be that. I'm going to be that forever. And you"--she kissed him passionately--"you're all the world to me! But I've no right to be _all_ the world to _you_. And you mustn't allow it. It's making it too small!" "Mary, what are you saying?" "Don't, John. Don't speak that way. I'm not saying anything. I'm only trying to say something, I don't know what." "Neither do I," was the mock-rueful answer. "I only know," replied Mary, the vision of Dr. Sevier's carriage passing before her abstracted eyes, and of the Doctor's pale face bowing austerely within it, "that if you don't take any part or interest in the outside world it'll take none in you; do you think it will?"