He laughed, a low, constrained laugh, holding my shoulders as if I were a bit of a child. "God knows you are enough, Hetty. I never thought He'd send me this. Rob has been talking to you? He"---- "He is bitter." "He loves me,--poor Rob!" "Tell me of those people that hurt you, as he says." It was a prurient, morbid curiosity that had seized me. A sort of shiver ran over his frame. "Eh, what, Hetty?"--in a low voice. "Let that go, let that go,"--standing silent a moment, looking down. "Why would we bring them back, and hack over the old dead faults? Had _she_ no pain to bear? We couldn't find that out to speak for her. But God knows it." I might have known how my question would have ended; for, always, he covered over the ill-doing of others with a nervous haste, with the charity of a man himself sharply sensitive to pain. "It is healthful to go back to past pain," I said, half dissatisfied. "Is it so?"--doubtfully, as he turned away with me. "I don't know, child. Now and then He has to punish us, or cut out a cancer maybe. But for going back to gloat over the cure or the whip-lash----No; it will keep us busy enough to find good air and food, every minute for itself"; and, with a ruddy, genial smile, he had stooped and kissed my forehead. A year had passed since that night. I was standing on the same porch, but I was alone now. My husband sat a few feet from me in his old easy-chair, but no gulf could have parted us so wide and deeply. Robert Manning had said I would have but one chance. Well, I had had it, and it was gone. So I stood there, looking quietly at him and Jacky and the boy. The child had pushed his father's wig off, and his bare head with its thin iron-gray hair fell forward on his breast, resting on Teddy's sleeping cheek. I saw now how broad and sad the forehead was,--the quiet dignity on the whole face. Yet it had been such a simple-hearted thing to do,--to buy that wig to please me! One of those little follies the like of which would never come again.