“And not a word to Barton?” Putting her lips close to the other’s ear, she whispered fearfully—“You know he would turn us both out into the street if he knew.” “He shan’t hear a lisp from me!” asseverated the nurse stoutly. “We’ll have the two of you sound asleep before he comes in.” She always humored delirious patients. In such cases veracity courtesied to expediency. The prime fellows made up a theater party after the club dinner and ended a jolly day with a jollier supper. The silvery tongue of the French timepiece upon the library mantel said it was one o’clock as Barton, entering, was amazed to see that he must have left the Argand reading burner up at full height. A second step showed traces of other occupation than his and of later date. His wife’s secretary was open, a portfolio lay wide upon the floor, and the rug was strewed with papers. Before the suspicion of burglary could cross his mind, he trod upon something hard. It was a heavy gold hair pin of a peculiar pattern, which Agnes wore constantly. He had noticed it in her hair at noon to-day, as her head lay back against the cushions, weighed down, it would seem, by the heavy coils. Had that hypocritical hag of a nurse allowed such outrageous imprudence in his absence? He examined the lock of the secretary. The key which he believed was kept upstairs by Agnes was in it; a survey of the apartment revealed no other signs of unwonted disorder. “Oh, these women!” his face, florid with champagne, hock, and righteous choler, crimsoned apoplectically when he stooped for the portfolio. A sheet of paper, covered with his wife’s neat, compact chirography, fell out. It was in verse, and bore no caption. “So-ho! poetry!” As in a dream, he seemed to hear Agnes’ voice: “I am not a bard at all. When I am in the dark, or at best in a half-light—sorry or weary, or lonely of heart—my thoughts take rhythmic shape.” At the bottom of the third page of the rhymes was a date. “_October 5, 188—._” He recollected the day. He had gone off to join some friends for a week’s hunting, leaving her in a quiet mountain inn. “And she was lonely of heart—poor little wifie!” He sat down to read: “He turned him at the maple tree, To wave a fond farewell to me. The burning branches touched his head, Tawny and ash, and dappled red. Behind him, in still fold on fold— As painters lay with leaves of gold The ground on which they mean to trace Some favorite saint of special grace— The chestnuts floored and roofed and hung Niche for my hero saint. Down-flung From cedar tops, the wild woodbine Lent pennons brave to deck the shrine; Barbaric sumachs straight upbore Their crimson lamps, and, light and hoar,— Like votive lace bestowed by dame, Repentant of her splendid shame,— O’er withered shrub and brier and stone, The seeded clematis was thrown.