"But, Barbara," I said, a feeling of bewildered helplessness stealing over me at the contradictions to which she was everlastingly giving utterance, "we are reasonable beings." "Oh, yes, to a certain extent, but no farther. The question is to what extent. Take the son of a thief, now; how can he help being a thief? He was born one." "You wouldn't punish him for stealing?" "I don't think I would, for how can he help it? I would teach him--I would lead him gently." I brightened up. "That is what we are trying to do." "Yes; for it is so wrong to take what doesn't belong to us--and to take it on the sly, too! To go over boxes when one is ill and unconscious. Fie, John! I hoped we were not going to speak of that again." "But it is you who brought it up." "Oh, no, love, it was you. You shouldn't allow things to rankle in your mind; it is hardly manly. What was I saying about Maxwell? Oh, his inconsistency. I am glad I am not inconsistent, but I am not going to boast of it. Only you might take a lesson from me. The weak sometimes can help the strong. Remember the fable of the lion and the mouse." I changed the subject. "We will start for Geneva to-morrow morning. It is a delightful journey." "Everything is delightful in your company, you dear boy. You are glad that we shall soon see Maxwell, are you not?" "Yes, I am glad if it will give you pleasure." "Thank you, dear. Could any newly-married couple be happier than we are? Give me a kiss and I will go and do my packing." I recall these conversations with amazement. I was as a man who was groping in the dark, vainly striving to thread his way through the labyrinths in which he was environed. There was an element of masterly cunning in Barbara's character by the exercise of which I found myself continually placed in a wrong light; words I did not speak, motives I did not entertain, sentiments which were foreign to my nature, were so skillfully foisted upon me, that, communing afterwards with my thoughts, I asked myself whether I was not the author of them and had forgotten that they had proceeded from me. But Barbara's own conflicting utterances were a sufficient answer to these doubts. One day she informed me that Maxwell had a contempt for me, the next that he had a high opinion of me. Now she despised him, now she was longing for his society. One moment he was all that was bad, the next all that was good. I did not allow these contradictions to weigh with me. My aim was to do my duty by my wife, and to save her from becoming a confirmed drunkard; to that end all the power that was within me was directed. In order not to put temptation in Barbara's way I became a teetotaler, and from that day to this, except upon one occasion, have not touched liquor of any kind. "No wine, John?" Barbara said, as we were eating dinner. "No, Barbara; I am better without it." "Turned teetotaler?" She looked at me with a quizzical smile. "Yes."