A Contrast—The Husband and the Lover.

"Here is a letter for you, Edith. Shall I read it?" Howard asked his wife.

Pale and thin she lay outstretched on a couch near him.

"Yes, please," answered Edith.

Howard tore open the letter and read.

"Dear Sister Edith: I am transferred to New York, and will arrive there tomorrow. I can't tell you how glad I will be to be near you a few months. Your letters have been so welcome, but they are not like our good old talks and discussions. I'm hoping you wall be a 'Mormon' yet. I will come to see you, directly I arrive.

"Always your loving friend,

Betty Emmit."

"That fanatical girl back again! I suppose now you're weak, she will influence you."

Edith's face flushed.

"Please give me the letter, Howard," she said gently, and he obeyed.

As he turned to his writing, he did not see Edith kiss the letter, and put it in her bosom.

"Dear, sweet girlie," she thought tenderly, "I certainly will love to have you now."

When Edith had fallen unconscious in George's arms, the curtain fell upon the first act of her young life—an act untouched by any real agony of living. But just before the curtain fell, the clouds had gathered ominously, and warned her of the storms to come. The blessedness of her unconscious state lasted a long time. For two weeks she hovered between life and death.

Howard, upon his return, was filled with horror. He was more than grateful that George had not left her side one moment of that first day, or night. He begged him to take the case.

George with an absorbing intensity, studied her slightest symptom. His was the passionate desire to save her life. He succeeded, but the shock had destroyed all hopes of motherhood.

The anxiety of Edith's illness, together with Mrs. Esterbrook's death, brought several spells of heart trouble on Mr. Esterbrook. One week from the time his wife was buried, he succumbed to heart failure, and was laid to rest.

George forbade the slightest mention of it to be made to Edith. As she slowly returned to consciousness, he wondered how to prepare her for the awful revelation of her bereavement.

When he spoke of it to Howard, he learned the weak nature of one who was Edith's ideal.

"Really, Cadman, I can't possibly tell her. You are a doctor, you know best how to do those things. Won't you relieve me of this trying ordeal? I'm sure to make a blunder of it."

George concealed his surprise, and calmly acquiesced.

With all the power of his great strong sympathies, he made the telling of it as bearable as possible. He contrived also to have Alma near to soothe and comfort in her woman's way.

She was only too glad to give her heart's best to Edith. And Alma found herself constantly being lifted into realms of beauty and light, which she had never even dreamed of in her past selfish life.

All her old way of thinking was completely cast off,—the old garment was replaced by a new one of shining brightness.

Edith would never forget these two good friends. George's tactful sympathy carried her through her crisis. Alma's woman's heart wept with her, and so her triple loss was made less awful in its consequences.

However, with returning health, came a fearful melancholy which neither could alleviate.

Howard was ordinarily kind, but seemed to fear the slightest reference to her grief. He was away from home a great deal. Always he was punctiliously careful to leave her well provided for and not alone, but her illness seemed to irritate him, and she could see that, being any length of time at her couch made him uncomfortably, restless. His coldness hurt her with a new constant pain.

George's watchful patience, and constant thought of her was a vivid contrast, and she found herself looking for his visits with an ever-increasing longing.

It was the subtlest working of heart upon heart, which finally chilled her love for Howard, and made his presence a source of constraint and embarrassment. Edith did not yet acknowledge to herself that her love was any the less. But as love generates love, so Howard's aloofness and indifference was surely generating its own kind in his wife's mind and heart.

"There is Cadman's auto," Howard remarked in a relieved tone, as he looked from the window and saluted George as he alighted. "We will get his opinion about it."

At the sound of George's name Edith's eyes brightened. She never allowed herself to think of the time when his professional calls would cease. She had a vague, unhappy fear that he would make no other calls.

As he entered the room, she tried to rise to greet him, but she sank back on her cushions.

George's eyes scanned her professionally.

"Not any better today? I expected decided improvement."

Going to the couch, he took her hand gently and held it up for inspection.

"A nice shadow of a hand, is it not, Mr. Hester?" he asked, smiling.

"A hand that was once plump and fair," replied Howard, trying to be jocular. "I'm just telling Edith she must go away and live in fresh air and sunshine. What say you?"

"Yes," replied Cadman grimly; "But she needs something more than fresh air and sunshine."

"She has but to ask, and it is hers," said Howard; his spirits rising at the possibility of an unpleasant situation being removed.

"That is a greater privilege than most possess," returned George quietly. Then he turned brightly to Edith.

"And what would our little patient like most?"

The violet eyes grew sadly thoughtful.

"I'm not sure that I desire anything, only to be left alone—to die or live, as God sees best. I would like to please Howard and go away,—but I couldn't—O! I couldn't bear the awful lonesomeness of a strange, big place!"

She spoke like a frightened child, and a quick sob was controlled with effort.

George's heart was beating wildly. He longed to take her in his arms to comfort her. He dared not show his excess of feeling.

Glancing at Howard, he saw an impatient frown darken his handsome features.

"Edith is so indifferent to her health. I don't see what we can do," remarked Howard coldly.

"Yes, I understand," Cadman replied evenly.

Then he turned to Edith again, and she read in his eyes the same wonderful expression that had thrilled her before. Never did he drop his gaze, and he looked untold sympathy.

"I understand. I have known just how this would be. You must go away, but you shall not be lonesome, I have your two best friends going with you."

"I don't understand," said Edith, with a show of interest.

"Of course not," he said, smiling. "Betty Emmit arrived in New York yesterday and telephoned me. I called upon her, and found her,—not sick, but tired out. I think she needs a change. I then called on the Mission President—by the way, a fine man,—and proposed that Betty accompany you to the mountains for a week or two—mutual benefit affair! Then I've spoken to Alma, and she is going too. How about that?"

Edith's eyes brightened with pleasure and gratitude.

"It seems too good to be true," she said happily. You are so thoughtful, George.

"You see, we professional men know the needs of our patients beforehand," George replied, smiling gravely, "You will go?"

"O, yes,—with Alma and Betty, and I'll try very hard to become well again quickly."

George arose hastily. It was hard enough for him to conceal his feeling ordinarily, but he could hardly stand the present situation.

"I am rushed today, so I cannot linger," he said. "There is nothing I can do for Mrs. Hester at present," he added turning to Howard. "Mrs. Lambert will call today, and make all arrangements. The sooner she goes, the better."

"Thank you, Cadman, thank you!" he exclaimed. My mind is quite relieved."

"Of a burden you never carried!" thought Walter.

To Edith he smiled reassuringly.

"We'll get you so strong, you'll never think of loneliness," he said with great gentleness.

When he was gone, Howard turned to Edith, all smiles.

"You don't mind if I leave you for a few hours,—Mrs. Lambert will soon come, and I have an important date."

"O, no," replied Edith, dreamily closing her eyes.

"Make any arrangements you like, and don't spare money, you know." He leaned over and lightly kissed her forehead. Then quickly he left the room.

Edith, alone with her thoughts, began to feel a twinge of her sensitive conscience.

"Howard is generous, and I wish I could show more appreciation. But I couldn't care for money—if he would only stay with me, sometimes."

Then her thoughts wandered to George.

"He always knows what I need, she murmured." He always knows and always gives."