Mrs. Wentworth was not a business woman, and she knew little of her husband’s affairs, but she had a feeling that this question of life insurance was all that stood in the way of the precautions that he ought to take. He could get something for his interest in the business, if he retired, but not enough to make proper provision for her. He could take up some quiet pursuit and continue to make a little money as long as he lived, but he could leave only the most trifling income. And, in his efforts to improve matters, he had only made them worse. She understood so much. There was an undercurrent of sadness, but still something beautiful, in the life that followed this conversation. All the little sympathetic attentions that love can suggest, each gave to the other, while each worried in secret, seeking only to make life a little easier and more cheerful for the other. But Mrs. Wentworth was becoming as desperate as her husband, and even more unreasoning. Was not her husband’s life worth all the money of all the insurance companies? And were they not condemning him to death by their action? It was more than a risk that depended upon life; it was a life that depended upon the risk. In a little time she convinced herself that the insurance companies could save him and would not, failing utterly to appreciate the fact that, even with the greatest precautions, the chances were against him; that there was only a possibility that he might live longer than a few years, the probability being quite the reverse. Murray was shocked when she called to see him again. The change in her husband was no greater than the change in her. Was not the man she loved committing suicide before her eyes? And was he not doing this for love of her and the baby? Would not such a condition of affairs make any woman desperate and unreasoning? “Mr. Murray,” she said, “if you are as good a friend to my husband as he has always been to you, you will save his life.” “I will do anything in my power, Mrs. Wentworth,” replied Murray. “Nothing in life ever has so distressed me as this.” “Then give him the policy he wants.” “Impossible! Why, the doctor—” “You can fix it with the doctor; you know you can! Or you can get another doctor to pass him! Oh, Mr. Murray! I am not asking for money; I am asking for life—for his life! It’s suicide—murder! I want to get him away! I must get him away! But I can’t while he fears for our future—the baby’s and mine! He must provide for us, and he’s losing the little he had! He can’t stand it a month longer! Give him the policy, Mr. Murray, and I’ll swear to you never to present it for payment! It’s only for him that I ask it! You can give him life—give your friend life! Won’t you do it?” The tears were running down the little woman’s cheeks, and Murray could not trust himself to speak for a moment.