"Deprived of freedom, health and ease, And rivall'd by such _things_ as these, Soft as I am, I'll make thee see I will not brook contempt from thee! I'll give all thoughts of patience o'er (A gift I never lost before); Indulge at once my rage and grief Mourn obstinate, disdain relief, Till life, on terms severe as these, Shall ebbing leave my heart at ease; To thee thy liberty restore To laugh, when Hetty is no more." One morning William Wright awoke out of stertorous sleep with a heavy sense of something amiss, and opened his eyes to find Hetty standing beside the bed in nightgown and light wrapper, with a tray and pot of tea which she had stolen downstairs to prepare for him. After a second or two he remembered, and turned his face to the wall. "No," said she, "you had better sit up and drink this, and we can talk honestly. See, I have brought a cup for myself, too." She drew a small table close to the bed, and a chair, poured out the tea and seated herself--all with the least possible fuss. "I suppose you know," she began, "that you struck me last night?" His hand trembled as he took the cup, and again he turned away his eyes. "You were drunk," she went on. "You called me by an evil name, too-- a name I once called myself: but a name you would not have called me in your sober senses. At least, I think not. Tell me--and remember that you promised always to answer honestly: you would not have called me so in your sober senses? You do not think of me so?" He set down the cup and stretched out a hand. "My lass"--the words seemed to choke him. "For I am not _that_. You married me knowing the worst; and ever since I have been a true wife to you. Well, I see that you are sorry. And you struck me, on the breast. I have a bruise there; but," she went on in a level lifeless tone, "there is no child to see his father's mark. You are sorry for that, too. But I understand, of course, that you were drunk. Many times now you have come home drunk, and next morning I pretended not to know it. I must not pretend now, since now to be clear about it is my only chance of comfort and your only chance of self-respect." He groaned. "Lass, I could cut my hand off for it! When a man gets overtaken--" "No, no," her voice suddenly grew animated; "for God's sake, William, don't cry over it! You are not a David." She shivered, as a trick of memory brought back to her the night in the harvest field when she had broken out in wrath against her least admired of Biblical heroes--the same night on which she had first set eyes on this man, whose ring and whose bruise she wore.