For the first time in her life Dora was miserable. Her pride revolted at the thought that something mysterious was passing under their roof, and that her husband had not thought fit to take her into his confidence. It did not occur to her that a man often avoids taking his wife into his confidence rather than expose her to the risk of a disappointment, by talking to her of hopes which may not be realised. Besides, there are important secrets which a man has to know how to keep to himself. A secret disclosed proves to be an indiscretion in the confiding one as often as a show of faith in the confidante. But Dora felt so sure of herself, so strong in her power of devotion, that it would never have entered her head that Philip could not repose entire confidence in her. When little Eva returned from a walk, about half-past four, accompanied by Hobbs, she found her mother in tears, half lying on the sofa, her face hidden in her hands. Eva had never seen her mother weep before. The effect upon the child was terrible. "Mama, what is the matter?" cried Eva. And she burst into violent tears. Quickly Dora pressed her handkerchief over her eyes to dry them, and smiled at the child. "It is nothing at all, darling; nothing, nothing." And she took her up and pressed the poor little heaving breast to her own, but the more she sought to console her, the more the child sobbed and cried. It was impossible to calm her grief, it was heartrending. "Mama, mama, are we not going to be happy any more?" Dora rocked her beloved Eva in her arms and said, with a gay laugh-- "What a little goose it is! Was there ever such a goosikins?" Eva had hidden her face on her mother's shoulder, and dared not look up for fear of seeing the awful mysterious something that had caused the state of distress in which she had discovered her mother. Her sobs finally died down into hiccoughs, and Dora began to sing to her some songs that the child loved. Eva gazed at her mother, whose face had regained its look of serenity, and then, growing bolder, glanced around into every corner of the room. Smiling once more, after her cautious survey of her surroundings, she ensconced herself more comfortably upon Dora's knees and said-- "Weren't we stupid, mama? There is nothing here, is there? But where can daddy be? How lazy he is to-day!" "Yes, isn't he? Naughty father, he ought to be at work." "When I marry," said Eva, "I shall never have a painter." "Why?" asked Dora, whom the child's chatter always amused. "Oh, because--I don't know--a painter is too busy always--he doesn't play with little girls. When I have a little girl, I shall play with her all day long." Dora felt the reproach stab straight to her heart. She was on the verge of tears once more, and felt a choking lump in her throat, but she mastered the emotion. "Then what kind of man shall you marry?" said she, with an effort at her gayest tones.