“Not to-night, either,” she said to herself. Her hand wandered to the telephone in the hall, but she drew it back. “No, better not,” she thought, and, putting out the lights, walked resolutely upstairs. As, candle in hand, she passed the door of Stefan's room, she looked in. His bed was smooth; a few trifles lay in orderly array upon his dressing table; boots, from which the country dust had been wiped days ago, stood with toes turned meekly to the wall. They looked lonely, she thought. With a sigh, she entered her own room, and passed through it to the nursery. There lay her baby, soundly sleeping, his cheek on the pillow, his little fists folded under his chin. How beautiful he looked, she thought; how sweet his little room, how fresh and peaceful all the house! It was the home of love--love lay all about her, in the kind protection of the trees, in the nests of the squirrels, in the voices and faces of her friends, and in her heart. Love was all about her, and the sweetness of young life--and she was utterly lonely. One short year ago she thought she would never know loneliness again--only a year ago. The candle wavered in her hand; a drop of wax fell on the baby's spotless coverlet. Stooping, she blew upon it till it was cold, and carefully broke it off. She sat down in a low rocking chair, and lifting the baby, gave him his good-night nursing. He barely opened his sleep-laden eyes. She kissed him, made him tidy for the night, and laid him down, waiting while he cuddled luxuriously back to sleep. “Little Stefan, little Stefan,” she whispered. Then, leaving the nursery door ajar, she undressed noiselessly, and lay down on the cool, empty bed. II The following afternoon about teatime Stefan bicycled up from the station. Mary, who was in the sitting room, heard him calling from the gate, but did not go to meet him. He hurried into the room and kissed her half-turned cheek effusively. “Well, dear, aren't you glad to see me?” he asked rather nervously. “Do you know that you've been away six days, Stefan, and have only troubled to telephone me twice?” she answered, in a voice carefully controlled. “You don't mean it!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea it was so long.” “Hadn't you?” He fidgeted. “Well, dear, you know I'm frightfully keen on this new picture, and the journeys back and forth waste so much time. But as for the telephoning, I'm awfully sorry. I've been so absorbed I simply didn't remember. Why didn't you ring me up?” “I didn't wish to interrupt a sitting. I rang twice in the evenings, but you were out.” “Yes; I've been trying to amuse myself a little.” He was rocking from one foot to the other like a detected schoolboy. “Hang it all, Mary,” he burst out, “don't be so judicial. One must have some pleasure--I can't sit about this cottage all the time.” “I don't think I've asked you to do that.” “You haven't, but you seem to be implying the request now.”