I wondered whether the life-stories of other women were anything like mine? Had they, too, been worshipped in their brief, bright girlhood, and neglected in their sad wifehood? Disappointed, driven back into myself, crushed down under a load of daily increasing anxieties, it is no marvel that I looked at Ronald and was secretly astonished to see that he was getting younger and brighter. The truth was that he had never yet fairly realised our position as I did. All through that long illness of his—all through the weary weeks of convalescence, I had done my utmost to keep the veil over his eyes. While I beheld the grim, ugly facts of our life, he saw only a rose-coloured haze that softened every unlovely detail; and that veil, which anxious love had woven, had never yet been entirely rent away. It was not a great wonder, then, that he fancied I was making the worst of everything, and was surprised at my anxious outlook into a future which he believed to be sunshiny enough. Too late I was learning the bitter truth, which every woman must learn sooner or later, that she who makes an idol of a man must always burn incense before his shrine. Instead of letting Ronald descend from the pedestal on which I had placed him—instead of making him take his lawful share of our common burdens—I had chosen to shoulder all the load, while he stood, high aloft, looking down with half-contemptuous surprise at the weak creature who was staggering at his feet. What influences were at work, hardening his heart? How was it that he did not watch me with the old anxious tenderness, and see that I was losing strength every day? Alas! He had grown tired of being anxious and tender. If he had married a rich wife, his life would have been untroubled by the sight of a pale face and an enfeebled frame. Nothing preserves a woman's beauty like prosperity. Let her tread upon roses—guard her from all the worries that come from lack of money—if you want her to keep her charms. For the thousandth time, the face of Ida Lorimer, fair, calm, unworn, rose up before me like a vision. Ronald was in the habit of seeing that face often; every day, perhaps. I could fancy that his hand would touch hers as he guided her pencil; I could guess that her golden head sometimes brushed his shoulder as he bent to watch her progress. Did not that contact ever inspire him with a vain regret for the days when she might have been won? It has taken a long time to write these thoughts upon paper, but they drifted through my mind as swiftly as leaves that are driven before the wind. There stood Ronald, with the old tragic look in his eyes that always reminded me of the portrait of Inez—a look that seemed to settle on his face now-a-days whenever he was alone with me. "I believe you dread going out with me, Ronald?" I said, after a brief pause. "What does it matter whether William Greystock thinks me mad or sane? I will write an excuse this very evening."