More than once he had spoken to her almost sternly of her idleness and unwillingness to assist him. Was it not possible in this connection to bring about some breach between them? In some indefinite way she felt a desire to quarrel with him. At this very time he was constantly urging her to join the small band of women who, under his guidance, were laboring to bring something of decency and comfort into the lives of the wretched dwellers in some notorious slum property in the parish. She steadfastly refused. It was not work which she could or would do. When this thought came to her, she was engaged upon some accounts, which he had asked her to have complete for an important meeting in the evening. She closed the books almost untouched, feeling fairly confident that this remissness would lead to remonstrance on his part, which she could make an excuse for defiance. Coming home late in the afternoon, Squire found her, as often he had done of late, sitting idly in the dusk by the window, looking out at the dreary prospect. The fire had sunk low, and the glowing coals shed but a dim light over the room. He was tired, physically and mentally, and a stir of anger came to him to find her sitting there thus, knowing that she knew that he considered this idleness wrong. He sat down heavily in the worn armchair, and began to unlace his boots; his feet would be rested by an hour or so of slippers. “I’m very tired,” he said; but she made no answer. “How have you got on with the accounts?” he asked after a pause. “I suppose they were all right?” “I don’t know. I haven’t touched them.” “Not touched them!” he exclaimed, aghast, and turning sharply to her. “Not touched them! You—knew they must be ready for to-night!” “Yes, I knew.” She stood up, let the blinds down, pulled to the curtains viciously, and then went over to the chimney-piece for the matches. She struck a light and turned up the gas, which blazed up into a shrieking flame, and, in turning it low, she turned it out. She lit the gas again, and then stood leaning against the table, watching his face of amazement. “I don’t understand,” he said, looking at her with puzzled eyes. “You knew they must be done, and you haven’t touched them? You’re not ill?” “No, quite well. It’s just this, Edward, this life is killing me; you must change it. I’ve done my best to stand it, but I can’t go on with it any longer.” “Change it—change it! How can we change it, even if it was right to?”