Indifference begets indifference. Love begets Love.

Two months from the time that Edith announced her engagement, her marriage took place. It was an exceedingly quiet wedding, as Edith especially wished. George was invited, but much to Edith's disappointed, he sent his regrets.

Edith was radiantly happy. Howard never flagged in his absolute devotion to her, and her very slightest wish seemed anticipated.

Her parents, contemplating her exceptional joy, grew quite enthusiastic over the union, and life seemed full of sunshine.

On her return from their honeymoon, a beautiful country home awaited Mrs. Howard Hester.

There she spent three months, returning in the winter to a home still more attractive.

Edith spent the summer in a dream, extolling every act of Howard's with an exaggeration born of her own goodness. She also laid plans for a very busy winter, devoted to charitable work. To all, Howard smilingly acquiesced as usual.

His plans were of an entirely different nature. Outside of business hours, his time would be spent in the pursuit of pleasure. He mapped out the winter with keen delight, and Edith in turn smiled assent to all his wishes.

What could be more perfect than this ideal marriage,—each one ready to let the other live an individual life. Edith would prefer not to have so much gayety, but if Howard desired it, surely she ought to accompany him everywhere. He was always so considerate of her!

When Howard was occupied in business, she could do all the wonderful things that she had dreamed of.

Added to all this happiness, a greater happiness finally came to Edith. This was the knowledge that she was to become a mother. For several months she kept the secret to herself, planning a general surprise for her husband and parents.

Howard, she told first, and met with her first disappointment in married life. He was not pleased, as she had expected him to be; in fact he was quite the reverse.

"I wish Edith, it hadn't happened so soon," he said gravely; "It will tie us down fearfully, and after all the plans that I have made! It's really too bad!"

"But, Howard, just think of our having a wee little life sent to us to care for and love. It seems so beautiful to me. I cannot understand your not rejoicing."

"You are quite enough for me to care for and love, my dear," he replied, giving her a slight caress. "I can't help thinking that children are a nuisance, but it's no use worrying over what is done."

Seeing a shadow flittering over her face, he added quickly, "There Edith, don't you worry about it and spoil your pretty smiles. You shall not be tied down, never fear. I shall see that you are as free as the air, if you have a dozen children," he said laughing.

"I was not thinking about that, Howard," she replied quietly. "I would so love to care for the little one—my own baby!—It seems too good to be true! but I do wish you were as glad as I am over it!"

"Well, perhaps I shall be, if it is as pretty as its mother, and does not become the proverbial nuisance," he returned, smilingly dismissing the subject.

Edith's mind traveled back to a conversation with Betty.

"You know, Edith dear," Betty had said, "in Ephraim, everyone has a large family, and the parents love their children above everything else. It makes everyone, young and old, so happy and busy."

But Edith's disappointment found consolation in the unbounded joy of her parents. In their anticipation of having a grandchild, they promised all kinds of wonderful things for its reception into the world, and its journey through it. However, they were not destined to have their fond hopes realized.

Two months before the eagerly looked-for date, Mrs. Esterbrook became seriously ill. Their own family physician seemed unable to diagnose the case. Frankly admitting the fact, he called for a consultation, after which the doctor smilingly assured Edith and Mr. Esterbrook, that he hoped for a speedy recovery. In spite of his optimism, Mrs. Esterbrook became steadily worse. Specialist after specialist was called in, all pronouncing new ailments and agreeing to disagree. These were fearfully trying days to Edith, but she did not realize any real danger for her mother.

She was more concerned about her father, whose heart was hardly able to bear the worry of his wife's long illness and suffering.

Finally, Mrs. Esterbrook seemed to take a decided turn for the better.

Edith returned to her home to attend to necessary duties, which she had neglected during the month past. During that time, she had watched almost constantly by her mother's bedside.

It was a cold dreary day when Edith, fatigued with her day's work, sought her pillow for a short sleep.

"Just an hour," she said to herself, "and then I will dress and go to mother's."

But she could not rest. Evidently she was overtired. She lay upon her couch, gazing dreamily through the window at the heavy snow-drifts without. It was March, The wind blew the fluffy white specks in all directions, and made a cold, dreary scene. Edith's heart was strangely heavy. She ought to be joyous at her mother's change for the better, but somehow her heart held a chill forboding, and she began to weep softly. She felt very much alone today. Her husband had been away for one week—a combination of business and pleasure had taken him. He was compelled to go, but he might have returned two days sooner, if he had not accepted an invitation to a week-end.

Of course she could no go, but that was no reason why he should not.

Edith agreed to this. She was always with her mother anyway. She could not wish him to stay at home for her, yet, today she wished he had—she was so lonely! "I never could have enjoyed it without Howard," she thought restlessly.

"O, but men are different," she assured herself. "I guess I am growing selfish. He will surely come tomorrow,—" and she aroused herself from her despondency and began to dress.

Near the completion of her toilet, the maid entered with a card.

She took it absently, then started when she read,—Dr. Cadman.

"Wishes to see me?" she asked the maid, wonderingly.

"He didn't ask to see you, madam, asked for Mr. Hester. When I said he was not at home, he took no notice of me, but stood gazing out of the window, just thinking like, so I thought I would bring the card to you."

"Quite right. I will be down very soon," returned Edith, putting the finishing touches to her toilet.

Experiencing a warm glow of welcome for her old friend, her spirits rose.

She hastened down and entered the parlor softly.

George stood with his back to her, looking gravely out of the window, watching the storm. He did not even hear her enter. The scene seemed to have the same fascination for him that it had for her a while ago.

"George," she said gently.

He started from his reverie and turned.

Speechless he stood, with an expression never to be forgotten.

His full direct glance shot momentarily joy intermingled with passionate longing. Then he swept her with a look, filled with a great penetrating compassion. His strong features were softened by unfathomable sorrow, and Edith, not understanding, yet felt the influence of his soul strength.

At first came an exultant glow—a reaction from her lonely mood. Then came a sudden fear, in answer to his great over-powering sympathy.

"George, what has happened?" she exclaimed, feeling the surety of his expressive countenance.

His expression changed. He came to her, and taking her hand he said kindly:

"Edith, it is several months since I have seen you. It is such a pleasant surprise to do so now. I asked for Mr. Hester, and Mrs. Hester appears."

She looked at him wonderingly. Could he change so in one minute?

"George, you are evading my question. Do not keep me in suspense. What have you to tell me?" she asked earnestly.

"What makes you imagine that I have any news for you, Edith?" he gravely returned.

"I cannot tell, but I am sure that you have," she answered.

"I came to speak with Mr. Hester," he returned evasively.

"Howard will not be home until very late tonight, possibly not until tomorrow."

George received this news with a perplexed frown.

"I'm more than sorry to hear that. It should be him and not I—Well, it is no use denying it. I have news of a serious nature. Do you feel strong and brave enough to hear it from my lips, instead of Howard's?"

George was not aware of her condition, though he guessed it. But he saw no excuse for himself to escape this trying ordeal.

"Tell me," answered Edith, and he read in her eyes a new sadness, born of constant anxiety.

He took both her cold hands, and held them in his strong warm grasp.

"Dear little friend," he said with a deep tenderness, "I wish that I could do all your suffering for you. I only heard of your mother's illness today. I hastened to her home to inquire concerning her. The maid told me that she was very low. I saw your father and he asked me to come to you."

Edith paled, but her eyes shone brightly.

"You should not have delayed a moment in telling me, George," she said gravely. "I will hurry quickly."

"You look pale. Will you allow me to accompany you?"

"Thank you, yes," she replied, hastily leaving the room and returning dressed for the street.

"It's only a few minutes' walk. Your father will be glad to see you so soon."

"Dear father!" exclaimed Edith. "He is far from well. I hope this relapse will be shorter than the last. I think mother bears these spells wonderfully well, don't you?"

He met her direct questioning glance, and he dared not meet it with an untruth. He must tell her now—there was no alternative.

"Would you not be glad when the time comes that will free your mother from these awful spells of agony? If she lives, she cannot be free."

"O, you do think there is doubt of her final recovery?" she asked fearfully.

"I do, indeed. How thankful we ought to be to have her at rest," he replied.

They were about to leave the house. She would need time to calm herself before going to her new scene of grief.

He drew her arm through his and gazed down into her face with a great fondness.

"Dear girl, be brave. You must meet the inevitable with all the resistance of your womanhood."

He waited for her to speak, but she was looking up at him in dumb despair.

His whole heart seemed conveyed in his next words. "Edith, as I entered your old home, your mother passed to rest."

Edith stood quite still. Her words came in little gasps.

You—mean—that—mother—is—gone?"

"Yes," he said softly. But your father awaits you. Be brave. We must hasten. He needs you more than ever now!"

She gave a smothered cry and tried to obey. But it was a futile effort.

With a heart-rending mute appeal, she leaned toward him.

He was eagerly ready. He caught her in his arms.

A deadly pallor overspread her sweet, fair face. Her eyes closed.

He looked down at her deathlike countenance, then gently carried her to the couch. "His in joy," he murmured, "and mine in sorrow."

*****