Joe Leslie never felt so mean in all his life as when he approached his house up town on this evening.

He knew he had been playing a miserable part in deceiving his wife with regard to his smoking, but subterfuge was something generally foreign to Joe’s nature, and this made it seem all the worse to him.

Still, he did not sneak along in a cringing way. Never had he walked more uprightly—for he could look people in the face now, at least, and was determined to make a clean breast of it.

Lillian was watching from the parlor window, herself hidden from view.

She thought she had never seen Joe looked so manly, as when he walked up to the house, and her heart seemed cold to think that it may have been the smiles of some rival that brought this look of pleasure to his face.Thus a man may feel mean, and at the same time appear joyous.

When Joe entered the house he saw a light back in the library.

Straight in that direction he walked.

Lillian was seated there apparently reading—how was he to know she had hastily flown hither from her lookout?

Joe softly closed the door. Another minute and he stood before his wife.

“Lillian, my wife, look up.”

Somewhat startled, she did so.

“Why, Joe!”

“I want you to know what a base man you have for a husband, Lillian.”

“You mean—” she gasped.

“That I have a confession to make, and I am determined to make it now.”

“A confession, Joseph—” and the little woman gained her feet.

Her face was white with a sudden fear—she even believed Joe was about to tell her some terrible truth—that he had never loved her—perhaps had been married ere he knew her.

At any rate she was dreadfully alarmed.

“Yes, I have been a villain to treat the best little woman in all the world so, but this old love was with me long before I knew you—it had become a part of my very life. I never knew how strong it was until lately. God knows I have tried to shake it off, and be faithful to my promise, but I am weak. I have sinned, Lillian, my wife, and I stand here humbly to ask if you can ever forgive me.”

He stood there with bowed head, proud even in his humility.

“But oh, Joe, to think—that woman—” and she burst into a torrent of tears.

He seized her hands and took them down from her face.

“Good heavens, Lillian, I forgot that you believed that. It is no woman—I have never been unfaithful to you in word or deed—that was not I whom Darrell saw at the bal masque last night, dear. I am yours, wretched man that I am, but yours alone, always.”

“But what—I don’t understand—you say you have sinned and yet that you are innocent. Oh, Joe, please tell me everything.”

“I would be a base wretch if I did not. Do you remember making me give a promise before we were married, Lillian?”“Not about your cigars, Joe?”

“That’s it,” eagerly; “and for a time I suffered terrible torments in keeping it to the letter; but after a while the devil tempted me. He said, ‘You promised to give up cigars—nothing was said about your pipe.’ Lillian, like a weak fool I gave in, and daily almost, for months, I have gone to the house I own in Twenty-seventh Street, changed my clothes and enjoyed half an hour’s smoke.

“It was a cruel deception on you, and I have felt like a sneak in doing it. Thanks to Darrell my eyes have been opened and I am here to confess all, asking forgiveness.”

Lillian could hardly believe her ears—she turned a face illumined upon her husband. “Joe, dear Joe, is this your dreadful secret?”

“It is,” solemnly.

“You are sure you have told me everything?”

“There is not another thing I have ever kept from you, my darling.”

“And you love no one else?”

“Not a living soul but my wife.”

“Oh! I am so glad.”

With these words she flew into his arms, and Joe, bending down, gravely kissed his own.“You are sure you can forgive me, dearest?”

“Forgive you—oh, Joe, I shall love tobacco after this.”

“See, I have brought my pipe here for you to destroy—I couldn’t quite do it myself, for I’ve had it many years. But you shall be the executioner.”

“Not for worlds—if this is the only rival I have to fear I can share my place in your heart with it. You shall smoke after dinner, and I myself will fill your pipe.”

He kissed her fingers tenderly.

“Ah! dearest, what a fool I have been all this while, to suffer as I have when by confession I might have long since been absolved. But I am sincere in my resolve to stop smoking.”

“And I am just as firmly resolved that you shall not. I am cured of my folly. But for that foolish prejudice you would never have been led to deceive me.”

They held sweet communion for some little time, and all seemed as lovely as during the bright days of their courtship.

Then the dinner bell rang.

Together they went down, Joe’s arm around his wife, as though they were lovers.After the meal was over they again sought the library, and chatted.

“Now for your pipe, Joe, dear,” said Lillian.

He protested.

It was of no avail—she was determined that he had suffered enough—better love with a cigar in the house than the absence of both.

Few men will condemn Joe’s weakness.

In other respects he could be adamant, but he owned up to being very fond of a smoke.

So Lillian took his bag of tobacco out of the case which also held the pipe, filled the bowl and brought it to him.

He kissed her on the spot—what else could he do?

“A match, please, dear, since you insist upon it—I am out of them.”

“And the holder is also empty—stay, here is a scrap of paper that will do.”

She took a piece out of the waste basket and, without looking at it, twisted a lighter.

This she held in the gas jet, and, lighted, brought it over to Joe, who calmly laid it on his pipe, puffed a few times, and then, blowing out the flame, knocked the red ashes off the lighter, laying it on the table for possible use again.Then he eyed his wife quizzically.

She was looking at him with a smile.

“I feel like a brute, Lillian, to inflict such a torment upon you. Say the word, and the whole thing goes forever.”

“Not I,” she replied; “I never knew how fragrant the odor was. If you must smoke, my husband, you shall do it as other gentlemen do, in your own home, but always smoke the best cigars and few of them.”

This was charming, Joe thought.

He had not been so happy for months.

It often happens that the skies are clearest just before the worst of storms.

Joe saw no cloud on the horizon.

All the same it was there, and ready to blot out the sunshine like magic.

It came about in a peculiar way.

Lillian had settled down to read a book she was interested in, and Joe had his paper.

While he read he mechanically fingered the lighter with the charred end, and untwisted it.

Finally he looked over his paper at his wife and mused.

How good she was to make his penance so light and how happy he ought to be in the possession of such a dear little woman.Evidently Joe had forgotten something.

He found his pipe had gone out during his musing, and taking hold of the paper she had twisted for him, was about to make a lighter out of it again, when he received what seemed to be an electric shock.

A name had caught his eye on the paper. He held it up closer.

Yes, there could be no mistake—it was a note his wife had twisted up—by some mistake it had come into his waste basket.

What was left of it after the burning he read:

“if you can contrive to conceal it from your husband until then, all will be well. I think I can rely upon your discretion—everything goes on well, and our secret is, I believe, safe.

“Faithfully yours,

“Paul Prescott.”

When poor Joe had taken this in he felt as though he had been plunged into an icy bath.

The joyous spirit of contentment that had pervaded his whole being was gone.

Suspicion, jealousy, unrest, came trooping in with renewed force.

His own late experience should have been a lesson to him, but it was not.The first thing he did was to fold the paper up and put it in his pocket.

Why he did this he often wondered later on, when the right course would have been to have handed it to Lillian for explanation.

He looked at his paper again, but did not see that he had it upside down.

Thought was busy.

He was trying to convince himself that it was none of his business anyhow—that he had had his secret and why not Lillian.

Then again he remembered that she was his wife—what concerned her concerned him.

At any rate Joe’s sudden happiness was overcast—clouds had covered the sky.

He began to feel miserable.

As it was not his design that Lillian should see this, he assumed a cheerfulness he was far from feeling.

The evening passed.

Joe wished to get in a closet at one end of the room, but found it locked.

“I wonder where the key of this door is. I’m sure I didn’t take it.”

Accidentally he chanced to look toward Lillian while speaking, and was almost startled to see the color fly into her face.“I believe I left it up-stairs, Joe. If you really want it I might go up and see if I can get it.”

“Oh! no, dear, it doesn’t matter. Another time will do as well,” he said carelessly.

At the same time, for the life of him he could not help associating her action with the letter received from Paul Prescott.

It worried him.

He was diverted from this state by Lillian, who asked about the clerk, so Joe told all that had been done the night before—he had spoken of it ere now, but had not given particulars.

Woman-like she was interested, and declared she loved him better because of the mercy he had shown for the boy.

Then Lillian retired.

Joe sat there a long time thinking.

Finally he got up and went over to the closet as if to effect an entrance, trying several of the keys on his bunch but with no success.

Then he walked up and down.

At times he was dejected and again his face seemed to speak of sudden passion.

Human nature is a strange thing.

A man enters an omnibus and frowns to hear the growls of those comfortably settled as they make room for him—presently another comes in, and his growls at being forced to squeeze into a smaller compass exceed the rest.

Joe, upstairs, discovered the missing key on the dainty dresser of his wife’s room—he took it in his hand, started for the door, stopped, made an impatient gesture, and returned the key to the place where he found it.

“Suspect her—never,” he muttered, and yet at the very moment his feelings had gotten beyond his control—it was pride that kept him from venturing to pry into her secret and discover what lay hidden in the library closet.

Thus Joe had won and lost a victory.