“You are too good to me, all of you,” said Rose. “But now, John, about that bad news—let me break it to papa and mamma; I think I can do it best. I know when they feel brightest in the day; and I don’t want it to come on them suddenly: but I can put it in the very best way. How fortunate that I am just engaged to Harry! Harry is a perfect prince in generosity. You don’t know what a good heart he has; and it happens so fortunately that we have him to lean on just now. Oh, I’m sure we shall find a way out of these troubles, never fear.” And Rose took the letter, and left John and Grace together. “O Gracie, Gracie!” said John, throwing himself down on the old chintz sofa, and burying his face in his hands, “what a woman there is! O Gracie! I wish I was dead! Life is played out with me. I haven’t the least desire to live. I can’t get a step farther.” “O John, John! don’t talk so!” said Grace, stooping over him. “Why, you will recover from this! You are young and strong. It will be settled; and you can work your way up again.” “It is not the money, Grace; I could let that go. It is that I have nothing to live for,—nobody and nothing. My wife, Gracie! she is worse than nothing,—worse, oh! infinitely worse than nothing! She is a chain and a shackle. She is my obstacle. She tortures me and hinders me every way and everywhere. There will never be a home for me where she is; and, because she is there, no other woman can make a home for me. Oh, I wish she would go away, and stay away! I would not care if I never saw her face again.” [Illustration: “O Gracie! I wish I was dead!”] There was something shocking and terrible to Grace about this outpouring. It was dreadful to her to be the recipient of such a confidence, to hear these words spoken, and to more than suspect their truth. She was quite silent for a few moments, as he still lay with his face down, buried in the sofa-pillow. Then she went to her writing-desk, took out a little ivory miniature of their mother, came and sat down by him, and laid her hand on his head. “John,” she said, “look at this.” He raised his head, took it from her hand, and looked at it. Soon she saw the tears dropping over it. “John,” she said, “let me say to you now what I think our mother would have said. The great object of life is not happiness; and, when we have lost our own personal happiness, we have not lost all that life is worth living for. No, John, the very best of life often lies beyond that. When we have learned to let ourselves go, then we may find that there is a better, a nobler, and a truer life for us.” “I _have_ given up,” said John in a husky voice. “I have lost _all_.”