The day had been peculiarly trying for Harriet. In these later years, every flurry on the Board of Trade, every sudden turn in the stock market, had given her two or three almost intolerable hours; but to-night the slump in lard was not in her thoughts at all. When she had called Sponley’s attention to the story in the morning paper of Pickering’s prospective corner, he had disposed of the matter with a glance and a nod. Then on her suggesting that he had known all about it before, he had replied in the negative. He was holding quite a line of lard himself, he said; but with this rumor of a deal of Pickering’s he had no concern. Five years ago--one year ago--the smallest doubt of his truthfulness could not have occurred to her; she knew he would have lied to himself as soon as to her. She remembered how he used to come home brimming over with the day’s experiences, how eagerly he had related and explained it all, and how confidently they had planned out their to-morrows. He used to tell her then that she was the mind of the firm; that what she didn’t think of herself she made him think of; that she was the one, big reason for his remarkable success. And he had meant it, too; she was sure of that. But as time had gone by, his confidences had been growing less spontaneous. The change had been slow, so slow that she could see it only by looking back, but it was unmistakable. He never told her anything now unless she asked for it. And to-day he had lied to her! She had only herself to blame for it. When she had ceased to be able to help him, he no longer looked to her for help. She was an outsider now; that was why he had lied to her. She looked intently at the face in the glass. “He will see to-night--he will surely see what a miserable wreck this old woman is,” and with that she rose and went down to the library where he was awaiting her. The afterglow from splendid masses of cloud high up the sky made a soft twilight in the room; but to Harriet’s eyes, blinded by the glare to which they had been subjected, it was quite dark. She did not at first see Sponley, who was standing in the shadow. “You almost startle me sometimes,” he said, “by taking me back twenty years or so. I have to think of myself to realize that we aren’t youngsters again.” “It must be the gown,” she answered. “I’m glad you like it.” She walked to the window and stood looking out. The diffused light hung in her heavy hair and in the folds of her dress, and her husband watched her for a moment in silence. The illusion was strong upon him. “The gown!” he said at last. “I can’t see the gown. But you walk like a girl, only more gracefully, and your hair--you are getting younger, Harriet.” “Only more skilled in trickery.” She spoke lightly; then, with a glance at the sky, she said in an altered voice,-- “How fast it fades.” “The sunset? It’s clouding up fast. We’ll have a shower pretty soon.” “Come,” she said, “let us go to dinner. I’ve kept you waiting.”