“There is not another thing I have ever kept from you, my darling.” “And you love no one else?” “Not a living soul but my wife.” “Oh! I am so glad.” With these words she flew into his arms, and Joe, bending down, gravely kissed his own. “You are sure you can forgive me, dearest?” “Forgive you—oh, Joe, I shall _love_ tobacco after this.” “See, I have brought my pipe here for you to destroy—I couldn’t quite do it myself, for I’ve had it many years. But you shall be the executioner.” “Not for worlds—if this is the only rival I have to fear I can share my place in your heart with it. You shall smoke after dinner, and I myself will fill your pipe.” He kissed her fingers tenderly. “Ah! dearest, what a fool I have been all this while, to suffer as I have when by confession I might have long since been absolved. But I am sincere in my resolve to stop smoking.” “And I am just as firmly resolved that you shall not. I am cured of my folly. But for that foolish prejudice you would never have been led to deceive me.” They held sweet communion for some little time, and all seemed as lovely as during the bright days of their courtship. Then the dinner bell rang. Together they went down, Joe’s arm around his wife, as though they were lovers. After the meal was over they again sought the library, and chatted. “Now for your pipe, Joe, dear,” said Lillian. He protested. It was of no avail—she was determined that he had suffered enough—better love with a cigar in the house than the absence of both. Few men will condemn Joe’s weakness. In other respects he could be adamant, but he owned up to being very fond of a smoke. So Lillian took his bag of tobacco out of the case which also held the pipe, filled the bowl and brought it to him. He kissed her on the spot—what else could he do? “A match, please, dear, since you insist upon it—I am out of them.” “And the holder is also empty—stay, here is a scrap of paper that will do.” She took a piece out of the waste basket and, without looking at it, twisted a lighter. This she held in the gas jet, and, lighted, brought it over to Joe, who calmly laid it on his pipe, puffed a few times, and then, blowing out the flame, knocked the red ashes off the lighter, laying it on the table for possible use again. Then he eyed his wife quizzically. She was looking at him with a smile. “I feel like a brute, Lillian, to inflict such a torment upon you. Say the word, and the whole thing goes forever.” “Not I,” she replied; “I never knew how fragrant the odor was. If you must smoke, my husband, you shall do it as other gentlemen do, in your own home, but always smoke the best cigars and few of them.” This was charming, Joe thought. He had not been so happy for months. It often happens that the skies are clearest just before the worst of storms. Joe saw no cloud on the horizon. All the same it was there, and ready to blot out the sunshine like magic. It came about in a peculiar way.