Alice could not quite understand it, and, indeed, it was a position which, for one reason or another, most people will fail to appreciate. The “price of blood” even Judas was unable to spend with a light heart; and the actual spoils of a pickpocket or burglar, most of us would gladly restore to their lawful owner; but if Henry Randolph handed his sister a hundred-dollar bill, to whom, if not to him, did it rightfully belong? And since to Alice’s eyes it represented, not money in the abstract, still less unlawful gains, but food, clothing, strengthening cordials, and innocent pleasures for husband and son,—and when he who offered these was her own brother,—why should she not accept them? To her it was a distinction without a difference that her husband was willing—or rather permitted her—to receive a fair amount as board for Pinkie and Nurse Annie. “He has a right to provide for his own child,” said Dr. Richards. Alice was glad that he looked at it in that light; but she could not understand it. Hewing down the priests of Baal in the name of the Lord would have been comprehensible enough; but when Jehovah and Baal were alike empty names, one sacrifice deserved fire from heaven as well as another, it seemed to Alice. The subject had never been a bone of contention between them; they had, it is true, once discussed it thoroughly, but dispassionately; then Alice had said, “I cannot quite understand your way of looking at it, Fred; but, of course, I shall not do anything that you disapprove of.” “That is all I ask of you, Alice,” he had answered gravely. It was indeed a virtue which most men would have felt with intense appreciation, that Alice was capable of stating her own views upon a question once for all, and, having realized those of her husband, choosing her course, and keeping silence forever thereafter. But the course he had marked out for himself was not so easy to Dr. Richards that he could dispense with the glad and hearty co-operation his wife had always been able to give him, and accept, as a full equivalent therefor, her mere passive acquiescence. It fretted him, like friction upon a raw spot, that from the numerous petty annoyances and privations that had come into her daily life, Alice knew that he could have saved her, and would not. She did not blame him; she recognized it as a question of conscience, and left it there; but the consciousness of it was ever alive and present to his thoughts. It was little wonder that the once fair, calm face was marked by many a line and furrow, and the quiet, cheerful manner often marred by gloomy impatience.