Once, indeed, shortly after Helen had rearranged the parlor with the old Adams whatnot and the Adams sofa with a golden-oak spindle back, he had sent out two handsome mahogany armchairs, his idea being to overcome the monotonous color and cheapness of this room. These chairs looked like two bishops at a populist meeting. Helen was pleased, but he had sense enough to know that he had blundered. I am merely giving you his side of this affair, frankly admitting that she was by nature disqualified to fill the position of wife to such a man. In the last analysis, of course, it would depend upon which of these two people such a man as George Cutter or such a woman and wife as Helen is the worthier type, or the more serviceable to his day and generation. It is not the reaping of what we sow ourselves--sometimes it is the reaping of what the other fellow sowed, the way we bear the burden of that--which determines our quality and courage. As for Helen, the elder Mrs. Cutter said it all shortly before her death. One summer evening she lay propped high in bed, her thin knees sticking up, her thin face stingingly vivid, her eyes spiteful with pain and discontent. Helen had just gone home after her daily visit, during which she ministered with exasperating patience to this invalid. Mr. Cutter sat beside his wife’s bed concerned for her, anxious to comfort her, but secretly wondering where she would strike. For he perceived by the spitting spark in her eye that she was about to strike. “Helen is hopeless,” she exclaimed. He was relieved not to be the target. Still he said something in reply about Helen’s being a “good girl.” “Yes, and that is all she is. She is not the wife for George. I knew it from the first,” she keyed off irritably. Mr. Cutter ventured timidly that she had made George a “good wife.” “Good, good, good,” she repeated. “I wish somebody could think of some other word for her. But they can’t. Good’s the adjective she’s been known by all her life.” “Well, it is a very good way to be known, my dear,” he returned mildly. “There you go again. Lower my pillow, Mr. Cutter. I can’t keep my head up and think about her. She weighs on me like a load of commonest virtues.” He let her gently down. She glared at him. He smoothed her pillow. Would she like a sip of water? No! and she was not to be diverted, if that was what he was trying to do. “Do you know what a merely good woman can be?” she demanded. The word good occurred to him again. He wanted to say that there was nothing better than a good woman, but he refrained. He must not irritate Maggie; if only she would not work herself up. “She can be the least intelligent creature alive, obsessed with the practice of her duties. Her mind inside her, never in touch with what is bigger and more important outside. She can be the stone around her husband’s neck. That is what Helen is.” Mr. Cutter sighed. He was fond of Helen.