And do you think that she darned even his stockings—something that touched his living body—without leaving on them a kiss or a caress? I do not. And wasn’t it splendid to live in the only happiness there was for her—or ever could be—by reason of that one great sacrifice! That she might rear his children, who was to be mother to none! That she might be almost a wife to him—who was to be wife to no one! That she was to have the very comradeship her soul desired because she was blind—not otherwise! And, best and greatest and sweetest of all, that she for whom it all was—the sorrow—the penance—the sacrifice—would never know till she should reach that Heaven where her knowledge would only be blotted out by the greater joy it would bring—there, where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, but where the Lamb is the one bridegroom! VIII WHAT MAY BE SEEN ON A DOORSTEP When the last one—the frail one—died, the teapots were sent to me in the city. (Had they, do you think, known of my covetousness all the while?) The one is wrapped in some soft, old, yellowed tissue which might have been with the trousseau. It smells faintly of dead rose-leaves. The little crack is neatly filled with fresh putty. Two of the worst chippings have been carefully built up and modelled with the same material. The other is resplendent in its original cotton wool and rests in its box. Only a little while ago I was passing a man’s back door. On the step was a patent teapot. It was not splendid, but like a person in evil circumstances. And I am sorry to say that I was glad—as I ought _not_ to be in the case of a _person_ in evil circumstances. He was pressing upon an air piston and expelling kerosene to fill a lamp. I stopped, and smiled, and said: “‘Eureka?’” “‘Eureka!’” he echoed, smiling also. “It seems good—for kerosene,” I said. “It is very good—for kerosene,” he replied. “But not for dear old ladies,” I thought, as I passed on. And so I tell this little story—or the old ladies do—because I wish that no one may ever again buy a new teapot for old ladies. They may have an old one with a story. But in case any one unthinkingly should, I have provided a better use for it—or the man on his back doorstep has. I have always wished that I had met him—on his doorstep—earlier. THOR’S EMERALD I THE SHIBBOLETH OF LIBERTY