struggled through the short night, and, as soon as he could, rose and went out. This was a frequent practice, and his wife was not surprised when she woke to find he had gone. She was in the best of spirits again, and when he returned, after offering him the usual morning greeting, she inquired at once in what part of the theatre he was, and why he had not used the ticket. “We waited for you till the last moment; we should have been too late if we had stayed an instant longer, and I made sure you would come directly.” “Ticket—what ticket? I saw no ticket?” “We left it on the mantelpiece, and there was a message with it.” His face brightened, but he said nothing. A rush of blood rose to his head; he moved towards her and kissed her. “What a wretch you must have thought me!” she said half laughingly, as she instantly smoothed her hair again, which he had ruffled. “But what has become of the ticket?” “Fell in the fire most likely; the window was open when I came in, and the draught blew the picture over the mantelpiece nearly off its hook.” The breakfast was the happiest meal they had had for months. Zachariah did his best to overcome his natural indisposition to talk. Except when he was very much excited, he always found conversation with his wife too difficult on any save the most commonplace topics, although he was eloquent enough in company which suited him. She listened to him, recalling with great pleasure the events of the preceding evening. She was even affectionate—affectionate for her—and playfully patted his shoulder as he went out, warning him not to be so late again. What was the cause of her gaiety? Was she thinking improperly of the Major? No. If she had gone with Zachariah alone to the theatre would she have been so cheerful? No. Did she really think she loved her husband better? Yes. The human heart, even the heart of Mrs. Coleman, is beyond our analysis. CHAPTER IV A FRIEND OF THE PEOPLE