“I sent the girl from the room because she was recommended to me by the matron of an orphan asylum in which she was brought up. Miss Marvel is a manager of the institution and had the girl trained in a school for domestics. Mary is much attached to her. I thought it hardly safe or kind to discuss her in Mary’s presence.” Barton met generous heat with deadly coldness. “When is your waitress’ month up?” “On the fifteenth.” “This is the seventh. Pay her a week’s wages to-morrow and pack her off. I will have none of that woman’s spies in my house—that is, always supposing it to be mine. I understand this afternoon’s scene. She is kept posted as to the status of domestic affairs.” “You are out of humor, Barton, or you could not be so unjust to me and to a faithful servant.” Griselda would not have retorted in a hard, cutting tone, but Griselda could neither read nor write. Diffusion of knowledge has a tendency to breed sedition among the lower orders. Clubs for the lofty, and lager beer saloons for the lowly, stand, with controversial Benedicks, for the “refuges” foreign cities offer to the fugitive from wheels and hoofs. “Excuse me for leaving you to digest your dinner and the memory of that last remark in solitude,” Barton said sardonically. “I shall finish _my_ dinner at the club.” The library was the coziest room in the house. Before Mr. Rowland called, Agnes had looked into it to see that the fire was bright and that Barton’s easy-chair, newspaper, and cigar-stand were in place. Upon the table was a bowl of _Bon Silène_ roses he had ordered on his way downtown that morning. She had poured out his coffee and lighted his cigar here for him last night. It all rushed over her with the pure deliciousness of the roses’ breath, as she returned to the deserted apartment after dinner. As she moved, the fragrance broke into waves that overwhelmed her with the sweet agony of associativeness. Sinking upon her knees before her husband’s chair, she laid her head within her enfolding arms and remained thus until the clock struck nine. Then she spoke aloud: “What has he given me in exchange for my beautiful ideal world and for my work? A drugged cup, with gall and wormwood in the bottom.” The slow, scornful syllables jarred the perfumed waves and echoed hollowly in the still corners. She arose, unlocked a secretary at the back of the room, and took out a worn portfolio—also locked. Selecting from the contents several large sheets of paper, she laid them in order upon the table, and drew from an inner pocket a gold pen in a shabby handle. With it she had written her first book. For six years she had used no other. Before dipping it into the ink, she kissed it. “I have come back to you!” she said. CHAPTER III. WITH the first heavy snows of December a little daughter was given to Agnes Ashe.