“If he can fly over that cord, I will go,” he said; and since this was the last trial, and the poor insect seemed to him something like himself at that moment, he watched with breathless interest its efforts to surmount the great obstacle of the curtain‐cord that lay in its path. The little creature attempted to crawl over, but, losing its balance, tumbled off and lay helplessly on its back. The young man set it carefully and tenderly on its feet once more. “Now do your best,” he said. “You and I have made a failure, but we will try once again.” Inspired, it would seem, by this encouragement, the fly put out its wings, gathered all its energies, and flew over the cord, tumbling ignominiously on its back again at the other side. Lawrence Gerald did not give himself the trouble to assist again his fallen friend, but went promptly to pull the bell‐tassel. He had thrown off all responsibility, and, choosing to see in these trivial chances the will and guidance of some intelligence wiser than his own, resolved instantly on following where they pointed. “I dare say I shall stumble like that clumsy fly, but I shall succeed in the end. At all events, I will try. I can’t and won’t stay here any longer. It is torment for me, and I don’t do any one else any good.” He seemed to be arguing with some invisible companion. “They will be better without me. Besides, it was not I who decided. I left it to chance. If it was....” His wife entering interrupted the soliloquy. She found him lying down, as she had left him, but with a color in his face that would have looked like returning health, if it had not been a little too deep. He stretched his hand out, and drew her to the footstool by his side. “Now, Ninon,” he said coaxingly, “I want you to be a good girl, and arrange something for me so that I shall not be annoyed by questions nor opposition. It’s nothing but a whim; but no matter for that. I want to go to New York for a day or two, by myself, you know, and I must start to‐ night. I’m not going to do any harm, I promise you. I feel a good deal better, and I believe the little journey will cure me. The train starts at eight o’clock, and it is now five. It won’t take me half an hour to get ready. Will you manage it for me, and keep the others off my shoulders?” She consented promptly and quietly, asking no questions. If he should choose to tell her anything, it was well; if not, it was the same. She knew the meaning of this coaxing tenderness too well to presume upon it. It meant simply that she could be useful to him. “What is he going to New York for?” demanded Mrs. Ferrier, when Annette made the announcement down‐stairs. “Mamma, you must not expect me to tell all my husband’s business,” the young woman answered rather loftily. Poor Annette did not wish to acknowledge that she knew no more of her husband’s affairs or motives than her mother did.