So the days, as I have said, glided on, bringing the end nearer and nearer. Mr. Lake went on his heedless way, and she sat at home and did silent battle with the anguish that was killing her. Her history is drawing to a close. The world, going round in its hard, matter-of-fact reality, is apt to laugh at such stories; but they are taking place, for all that, in some of its nooks and corners. One day, when it wanted but three or four to Christmas, Mr. Lake tempted his wife into the greenhouse to see his winter plants. She was more cheerful than customary--talked more; an artificial renovation had brought back some of the passing strength. "Clary, I have promised to spend Christmas-day with Penelope." A sudden rush of colour to her wasted cheeks, a pause, and a response that came forth faintly. "Have you?" "She said how dull it would be for us at home, and would not take a denial. You will be able to go?" "I go!" She glanced at him in surprise, and shook her head. "Why not?" "I am too ill." Mr. Lake felt annoyed. The proposed expedition had been presenting itself to his mind in a very agreeable light: for his wife to set her face against it, whether on the plea of ill-health or any other plea, would be especially provoking. "My dear, I tell you what it is," he said in a voice that betrayed his temper, "you will fancy yourself ill and lie-by and stay at home, until it ends in your being ill." "Do you think I am well?" "You are not strong; but if you would rouse yourself, and go more out, and shake off fancies, you would soon become so. An illness, such as yours was in the autumn, leaves its weakening effects behind it as a matter of course; but there's no sense in giving way to them." "I go out sometimes." "Just for a walk or so; that does little good. What you want is cheerful society; change. You have not been once to Guild since we came home." "You make up for it, then; you are there often enough." She could not help the retort; it seemed to slip from her tongue unguided. Mr. Lake kicked out at a broken pot. "Something or other is always happening to take me there. Mrs. Chester loads me with commissions, and I don't like to refuse to execute them." They went in. Mr. Lake returned to the charge. "You will go on Christmas-day, Clary, won't you? Penelope is preparing for us." "No; I am not well enough. And if I were, I should prefer to be at home. Say no more," she added almost passionately interrupting what he was about to urge. "You ought not to wish me to go there." A long silence. "I shall go. I must. I can't get off it." She did not speak. "What is to be done, Clara? It will never do for me to spend Christmas-day there, and you to spend it at home." And he finished the clause by breaking out, half-singing, half muttering, with the lines of a popular ditty that our childhood was familiar with--