The firelight gleamed on the walls, and in its glow the pictures looked down kindly upon us. Soft shadows rested in the corners of the room, and an air of peace and comfort brooded throughout, as a bird upon her nest. “Think a little while,” I said gently; “think of his side. Is he quite the same as he was when he married?” “Oh, no!” she exclaimed; “he was so loving and attentive then.” “Had he any hopes and plans? Enthusiasm? Did life look bright to him?” A serious look traversed her face, as though she were entertaining a new thought. “Look at him as he used to be,” I continued. And as I spoke, she saw that a young man with a fresh, sunny face—a healthy, happy, care-free face—was sitting in the ruddy firelight. She gave a start. “That is Joe as he used to be!” she said. “Oh, how he’s changed!” Even as she spoke, the young man faded away, and an older man—much older, apparently, careworn, and unhappy-looking—took his place. The coals in the glowing grate sank, and the bright light suddenly died. A deep shadow rested upon the figure beside us; he was with us, and yet seemed so alone. “Who would think a man could change that way in ten years!” exclaimed Mrs. Purblind; “would you believe it possible?” “Not unless he had known many disappointments, and borne loads and cares beyond his years.” “I have never thought of that,” she murmured, “I believe poor Joe has been disappointed too.” “He certainly has.” “It’s too bad, and there’s no help for it now,” she added with a sob. “Don’t say that,” I urged, laying my hand on hers again; “you close the gate of heaven when you say ‘no hope.’ There is always hope as long as there is a spark of life—any physician will tell you that. If you can be patient—be strong to bear, and wait—if you can make home bright, and not care, or not seem to care if he slights it and you, for weeks—months, maybe years—it takes so much longer to undo, than to do—there is _every_ hope. He couldn’t do this, but a woman—a real woman, is strong enough, with God on her side.” The dullness left her face, and an unselfish light dawned in its place. As she rose to go, she leaned over the other figure, and he looked up at her, with something of the old-time love. I replenished the fire after they had gone—they went out together—and as I sat there thinking of it all, I heard a sudden rushing sound in the street. I ran to the door, just in time to see a farm wagon, drawn by two strong horses, go pell-mell past my house, and overturn, as the frightened animals dashed around the corner. The neighborhood was agog in a moment, and I joined the rest in trying to help the occupants of the broken vehicle. We brought them into the house—the man and woman and a little child.