"Nothing!" I took her cold hands and sat down opposite her, drawing her nearer me. "Don't fear, my wife. They are going away again, I understand. She will go out of our life for always." "I have my children," Sarah mused after a pause. "We have _our_ children," I corrected. "And it's best to think of them before ourselves." "Oh, if we could take them and go away to some little place, to live like my people down in Kentucky--you and me and the children!" I smiled to myself at the thought. To run away was not just to pack a trunk, as Sarah thought! "It would be impossible. Everything would go to pieces. I should lose pretty much all that we have--not only that, but a great many other people who have trusted me with their money would lose. I must work at least until there is no chance of loss for them." "But aren't you a very rich man, Van?" "Not so rich as I shall be some day! But I might make out to live in Kentucky, all the same." "You think I must have a great deal of money?" "I always want you to have all that money can get." "To make up for what I can't have!" She burst into sobs. "I am so wretched, Van! Everything seems strange. I have tried to do what is right. But God must be displeased with me: He has taken from me the one thing I wanted." That was a bitter thought to lie between husband and wife. I took her in my arms and comforted her, and together we saw that a way lay clear before us, doing our duty by one another and by our children, and in the end all would come out well. As we sat there together, it seemed to me as though there could be two loves in a man's life,--the love for the woman and her children, who are his to protect; and the hunger love at the bottom of the heart, which with most is never satisfied, and maybe never can be satisfied in this life. So she was comforted and after a little time went to her room, more calm in spirit. Then I called my secretary, and we worked together until a late hour. When my mind came back to the personal question of living, the fire on the hearth had died into cold ashes and the house was still with the stillness of early morning. For the moment it came over me that the fight I was waging with fortune was as cold as these ashes and doomed to failure. And the end, what was it? Upstairs, Sarah lay half dressed on the lounge in my room, asleep. The tears had dried where they had fallen on her cheeks and neck. Her hair hung down loosely as though she had not the will to put it up for the night. As she lay there asleep, in the disorder of her grief, I knew that the real sorrow of life was hers, not mine. The memory of that day of our engagement came back to me--when I had wished to protect and cover her from the hard things of life. And again, as that time, I longed to take her, the gentle heart so easily hurt, and save her from this sorrow, the worst that can come to a loving woman. As I kissed the stained face, she awoke and looked at me wonderingly, murmuring half asleep:--