The blow was struck brutally, and Norine turned white, and her eyes opened staringly as she received it. “You do not believe that, my husband?” she said simply. Clinton did not answer. He only moved uneasily in his chair, looking doggedly at his feet to avoid his wife’s gaze. “You do not believe that, my husband?” repeated Norine. “I know you don’t.” “You have not denied it yet,” he said sulkily. “No, Clinton; I did not think it necessary to deny it. Oh, Clinton!” “Well, ‘oh, Clinton!’” mimicked her husband--“‘oh, Clinton’ has said nothing more than common report does. Was he not your lover?” “He has been the best friend I have ever had,” said Norine quietly, “and I respect him above all others. But he never spoke a word of love to me in all his life.” “Well, I wish he would not come here so often,” replied Clinton doggedly. “It is not pleasant to be away from home and know that another man comes almost daily to see your wife.” “Why do you go away from home so much, dear?” pleaded Norine. “There is no need of it, believe me; and it has changed you so greatly. We used to be so happy.” And her voice broke down into a quivering little sigh. He made no answer to this, and it was a long time before the subject was mentioned again by either. But it rankled deeply in the hearts of both. Clinton had never doubted his wife; but this was the first time that he had expressed a wish that was not promptly and quietly heeded, and it irritated him. Then, too, the farm life galled him more than ever, from comparison with what had become his usual mode of existence. He had never suggested the idea of leaving the farm to Norine. He was not even sure that he wanted her to leave it. But to come from his easy, almost luxurious, life in the city to this little cottage, where everything looked so pinched and bare by contrast, was a trial to him that not even his love for his wife and child could render easy. And Norine! If he had struck her a blow in the face she would not have been more hurt or surprised. She had felt in her heart that her husband was losing his love for her, and she had tried with all her loving heart to save him from himself. But now there seemed no hope for the future but in her child, and on him she showered all the love of her aching heart. And as the winter passed on, and the little fellow grew in every infantile grace, she drew him closer and closer to her heart, and devoted herself to him as her only consolation. She had never mentioned this quarrel to Jim. But Clinton never failed to ask how many times the doctor had been there during his absence. And from his tone and manner when speaking of Conway, Jim arrived at a pretty fair knowledge of the matter. “The hound!” muttered the irate young man to himself, when alone in the big red barn. “To speak that way of the man who saved his worthless life!”