Craddock had had his old loves, a fact that he did not attempt to conceal from his wife. She insisted upon his telling her about them, although the narration put her into manifest vexation of mind. Such is the way of young wives. There was one love about which Craddock said less than about any of the others, because it had encroached more upon his life than any of them. It had nearly approached being a serious affair. He had a delicacy concerning the mention of it, too, for he flattered himself that the flame, although entirely extinguished upon his own side, yet smouldered deep in the heart of the woman. Therefore, he spoke of that episode in vague and general terms. Strange as it seemed to Craddock, clear as it is to any student of men and women, it was this amour that excited the most curiosity in the mind of his wife. “What was her name?” asked the latter. “Agnes Darrell.” “I don't think she has a pretty name, at all events.” “Oh, that was only her stage name. I really don't remember what her real name was.” This was a judicious falsehood. “Well, I'm sorry that you ever made love to actresses. I'm afraid I can't think as much of you after knowing--” “After knowing that the first sight of you drove the memory of all actresses and other women in the world out of my head,” cried Craddock, with a merry fervour that made his speech irresistible. So they persisted in being extremely happy together for three years, to the grinding chagrin of Craddock's mother-in-law in Boston. One July Friday, Craddock's wife was at the seashore, while Craddock, who ran down each Saturday to remain with her until Monday, was battling with his work and the heat and the summer insects, in his office in the city. Mrs. Craddock received her mail, two letters addressed to her at the seaside, two forwarded from the city whither they had first come. Of the latter one was a milliner's announcement of removal. The other was in a large envelope, and the address was in a chirography unknown to her. The large envelope contained a smaller one. This second envelope was addressed to Miss Agnes Darrell, ---- Hotel, Chicago, in the handwriting of Craddock. The feelings of Craddock's wife are imaginable. She took from this already opened second envelope the letter that it contained. It also was in Craddock's penmanship. She succeeded in a semistupefied condition in reading it to the end. “May 13. “My Dearest Agnes:--I have just a moment in which to tell you the old story that one heart, thousands of miles east of you, beats for you alone. With what joy do I anticipate the early ending of the season, when, like young Lochinvar, you will come out of the West. I shall contrive to be with you as often as possible this summer. With renewed vows of my unalterable devotion, I must hastily say good night. “Yours always, “Jack.”