Lillian had settled down to read a book she was interested in, and Joe had his paper. While he read he mechanically fingered the lighter with the charred end, and untwisted it. Finally he looked over his paper at his wife and mused. How good she was to make his penance so light and how happy he ought to be in the possession of such a dear little woman. Evidently Joe had forgotten something. He found his pipe had gone out during his musing, and taking hold of the paper she had twisted for him, was about to make a lighter out of it again, when he received what seemed to be an electric shock. A name had caught his eye on the paper. He held it up closer. Yes, there could be no mistake—it was a note his wife had twisted up—by some mistake it had come into his waste basket. What was left of it after the burning he read: “if you can contrive to conceal it from your husband until then, all will be well. I think I can rely upon your discretion—everything goes on well, and our secret is, I believe, safe. “Faithfully yours, “PAUL PRESCOTT.” When poor Joe had taken this in he felt as though he had been plunged into an icy bath. The joyous spirit of contentment that had pervaded his whole being was gone. Suspicion, jealousy, unrest, came trooping in with renewed force. His own late experience should have been a lesson to him, but it was not. The first thing he did was to fold the paper up and put it in his pocket. Why he did this he often wondered later on, when the right course would have been to have handed it to Lillian for explanation. He looked at his paper again, but did not see that he had it upside down. Thought was busy. He was trying to convince himself that it was none of his business anyhow—that he had had his secret and why not Lillian. Then again he remembered that she was his wife—what concerned her concerned him. At any rate Joe’s sudden happiness was overcast—clouds had covered the sky. He began to feel miserable. As it was not his design that Lillian should see this, he assumed a cheerfulness he was far from feeling. The evening passed. Joe wished to get in a closet at one end of the room, but found it locked. “I wonder where the key of this door is. I’m sure I didn’t take it.” Accidentally he chanced to look toward Lillian while speaking, and was almost startled to see the color fly into her face. “I believe I left it up-stairs, Joe. If you really want it I might go up and see if I can get it.” “Oh! no, dear, it doesn’t matter. Another time will do as well,” he said carelessly. At the same time, for the life of him he could not help associating her action with the letter received from Paul Prescott. It worried him. He was diverted from this state by Lillian, who asked about the clerk, so Joe told all that had been done the night before—he had spoken of it ere now, but had not given particulars.