transported rather with the longing to be unselfish and give up her own life that her husband might save Isabel’s, she had yet, in the crisis, helplessly committed the final selfishness. She had killed Isabel. Nothing at first could quite excuse her to herself. And she knew that her husband must inevitably feel as she did. This was the barrier between them--Gundred’s innocent guilt, and Kingston’s answering knowledge that she, and she alone, had been the real cause of Isabel’s death. Her weakness had cost him the happiness of his life. How could he bring himself all at once to look on the poor woman with a cordial eye? He could not but bear her a grudge--all the more bitter that he realized how unintentional had been the cowardice that had had such terrible results. He guessed, in his inmost consciousness, that Gundred--cool, practical Gundred--would have wished to be no less heroic than Isabel, would have wished to sacrifice her own life to his happiness; and this instinct only aggravated his grudge, only intensified in its first vigour his aching, bitter grief that the sacrifice had not been achieved or made unnecessary by a brief exercise of Gundred’s usual calm. Yes, the death of Isabel stood between them for a while like a sword of fire. But Gundred was not a woman to suffer exaggerated scruples. Soon she surmounted the shock, and Bellowes’ Hypophosphates enabled her to triumph over morbid qualms. She reflected on the goodness and honesty of her intentions, set remorse in the background, and ere long was facing Kingston without any more such distressing reserves. He, meanwhile, was also growing quieter and more sane in his views. After all, no one was guilty. Everyone had acted for the best. Nature was not to be blamed. He was too fond of his wife to go on condemning her for an instant’s lapse. He saw the hysterical injustice of his grudge against her, and in time succeeded in overcoming it.