He was a healthy, human man, and fond of all the comforts of home. When he saw what a perfect housekeeper she was, his heart welled full of gratitude to heaven for his good fortune. Early orphaned, he had boarded from early boyhood. Perhaps, because he had never known a home, he had fallen into some careless ways. He excused himself in this manner when his wife first took him to task for leaving his hat on the centre table. He tried to remember that he must always hang his hat in the closet, where it had a peg of its own, but when he came in hurried with some special idea in mind, he found himself forgetting. And again the quiet, but decisive voice of his wife reminded him. Then he sometimes forgot to wipe his feet on the doormat. When he did this, if the day was damp or dusty, he was made to repent it by seeing his wife follow him with a floor-cloth or duster, wiping where his feet had trod. When he rose from a chair and forgot to place it where it had been, against the wall, she set it back herself with a quick, prompt gesture, which made him realise his delinquency. She often mentioned being very tired at night, too tired to go out with him because of the unnecessary work she had been obliged to do through the 'thoughtlessness of others.' He knew that 'others' meant himself. His cigar ashes were a constant source of annoyance to her. He tried to put them in an ash-tray always; but sometimes they would fall or scatter. She brushed them up immediately. So he fell into the habit of going to the club to smoke. She was a most undemonstrative girl; and what he had taken for maidenly reserve, when he wooed her, proved to be an utter absence of affection in her nature. She believed in duty; that was her great word. One day when he accused her of not really loving him, she asked him to point to one thing where she had failed in her 'duty.' Had she not kept his home in perfect order? Had she not been economical in expenditures? Had she not kept his name free from blemish? Had she not--but at this juncture he went out and slammed the door. And as he went he quoted from Kipling, saying: 'And now I know that she never will know, and never will understand.' One day he fell ill with a hard cold; and then indeed she became the devoted wife. A better nurse never lived. She was simply delightful, while he was confined to the house as her patient. But the moment he was up and out she became the nagging woman, with a mania for order, economy, and neatness; and all her tenderness and sweetness vanished into the acrid and severe manner of the thrifty housewife. She was a nurse and missionary and housekeeper--not a wife. And he was simply starving for love, for companionship, for good fellowship, for freedom, for happiness.