"Oh, you'll think of something," said the squire indefinitely. "He is to be in the shop the rest of the week, and that will give you time to think the matter over." "Then you can't hold out any hope!" said Mrs. Barton mournfully. "No, but you mustn't be despondent. Something will turn up." Mrs. Barton was silent, and her sad face made the squire vaguely uncomfortable. He wished she would go. "Mrs. Marlowe is not feeling well this evening," he said awkwardly, "or I would invite you to meet her. Some other evening----" "I am not in the mood to meet any one to-night, Albert," she said. "I will be going," and she rose from her chair and moved toward the door. "Good-evening, then. I am glad to have seen you." Mrs. Barton did not reply to the compliment. Her heart was too full of sorrow to respond to what she knew to be insincere and unmeaning. She understood very well that Albert Marlowe was glad to be rid of her. "How unreasonable women are!" muttered Squire Marlowe, impatiently, as he closed the door upon his unwelcome guest. "Mary Barton would have had me postpone all improvements in my shop for the sake of keeping that boy of hers in his place. Business considerations are as nothing to women. They are so unpractical." Mrs. Barton walked homeward slowly, musing bitterly on her cousin's want of feeling. "How cold-hearted he is!" she murmured. "He evidently cares nothing for our needs, or the prospect of our hardships. He lives in a fine house, and rears his family in luxury, while Bert and I are likely to want even the necessaries of life." Perhaps Mrs. Barton was a little too despondent. Perhaps she ought to have had more trust in Providence; but there had been sorrows in her life which had robbed her of her natural hopefulness, and she was no longer as courageous in the face of threatening misfortune as she had once been. She had nearly reached home when, from out of the darkness, a man's figure advanced from the roadside and laid his hand upon her arm. "Who are you!" she asked faintly, suppressing a scream. "Don't be frightened, Mary," was the reply, "I am your husband, Simeon Barton." CHAPTER IX. MRS. BARTON'S SECRET. Mrs. Barton staggered, and would have fallen, had not the other held her up. "You here," she exclaimed, in amazement, "after being absent so many years?" "Yes; it has been a cruel exile. We have been very unfortunate." "Where have you been these last ten years, Simeon?" "For the last eight years in Canada." "And you did not write me?" "No; I feared it would set officers on my track. I have heard from you now and then, indirectly. Have you suffered much?" "It has been a weary time. It would have been easier to bear if I had heard from you."