"I am going away," repeats Armstrong to his wife, "at once, on business. I must leave in ten minutes. I am going up to town first, then on to Dublin and Cork."

"How long will you be away?"

"Ten days—a fortnight at the longest. I have brought over Bob to stay with you during my absence, and have given him all directions which I have not had time to give you. I hope he'll take good care of you."

"I'm sure he will enjoy the change and the responsibility; and I'll see that he leaves in time for business every morning," says Addie mechanically.

"Oh, that is not necessary! He need not go to Kelvick. The fact is—I meant to have told you before, but other things put it out of my head—Robert is no longer in the office—has resigned his appointment, in fact," announces Armstrong.

"You could not keep him? I'm not surprised."

"No; it was his own wish to leave. He was totally unsuited to the work."

"And what is he going to do now?"

"Going to try soldiering."

"Soldiering? You mean he is going to—enlist!"

"Dear me, no, child! What an idea! He means to start with his commission, of course."

"But that is absurd! He has nothing; it is impossible for him to live in the army without money. I—I know—a cousin of mine who has three hundred a year besides his pay, and he is always in debt. It is absurd! I wonder at you, Tom, to encourage him in such an idea!" Her eyes flash on him defiantly.

"He is fit for nothing else, and it has been the dream of the boy's life. I think he will do well in the army; and he is not in the least extravagant. You must admit that, Addie."

She sighs wearily. Suddenly her face clears.

"He'll never get in; he won't have a chance. The examination is competitive, and getting worse and worse every year. The Hawksby and the Wilmott boys have been plucked twice, and have given it up as a bad job. Robert will never pass!"

"He is not going up for the direct Sandhurst exam. He has applied for a commission in the county militia, and, after serving two trainings, he can enter the cavalry with a merely nominal exam., I believe."

She is silent for a moment; a few hot tears steal down her face, her hands drop to her sides with a gesture of tired bitterness.

"So—so he will be a pensioner on you all his life," she says slowly; "he will eat the bread of dependence until he dies. And I can do nothing—nothing; my hands are tied—tied"—twisting her wedding-ring feverishly round and round, as if she would fain wrench it off.

He takes her hand and holds it for a moment in his firm clasp.

"Not yet, Addie, not yet. You promised me a year, remember."

"Such a long year—such a long year!" she sobs.

"I tried to make it as short for you as I could," he says, with almost pathetic humbleness.

"You did, you did; but you went the wrong way to work, Tom, the wrong way."

"So I fear, poor child; but I did it for the best."

"Will you tell Robert you have changed your mind, and do not wish him to enter the army?"

"I could not do that," he says reluctantly. "I have given him my word, his heart is set on it; besides, I conscientiously think it is the only career in which he has any chance of succeeding. You will agree with me when you have had time to think it over."

"You are robbing him of his manhood, his self-respect; you—you have no right to do it. He does not feel—understand now; but he will one day, when it will perhaps be too late. Oh, why do you do it—why? Is it to punish me, to avenge the wrong I did you, to heal the wound I dealt your pride, by humbling mine to the dust? I believe it is—I believe it is; I do not clearly know—I can not fathom you yet. Sometimes I place you on a pedestal high above others, of stuff too noble, too generous, too strong to seek to sting a thing as small, as pitiful, as helpless as myself. Then at other times, as now, you stand among your fellow-men, of common clay like them, vain, small, revengeful, unforgiving, cruel even!"

His eyes sink, a dusky glow creeps over his face, as he asks himself if there is not a little truth in her judgment of him. Does he not find an acknowledged sneaking satisfaction in thus watching her writhing under his kindness, in loading her shrinking shoulders with the weight of his benefits? After all, is there any necessity for him to mount that swaggering brainless boy on the charger his father rode so disreputably—Robert's wish is to join the —th Hussars, a regiment in which both his father and two uncles served, which his grandfather commanded during the Peninsular campaign with much gallantry and distinction—any necessity to pander to the sister's daily increasing vanity and greed of admiration, to feed them all on the fat of the land, as he is doing?

"Ah, you cannot look me in the face!" she continues, with a sad laugh. "My estimate was right; you do not stand on the pedestal, after all. Well, well, husband, you are getting full value for your outlay; your coals of fire reach me, scorch me, every one; my heart is scarred—sore—"

"As Heaven is my witness," he says hurriedly, "I would not willfully hurt a hair of your head! I would not—"

"Then tell Bob you refuse to help him with his commission," she puts in quickly. "He is paralyzed if he can not reach your pockets. Tell him, Tom—tell him that you have changed your mind, that you can't make him an allowance."

"It is too late, I fear, Addie; his militia commission arrived to-day; but—but—we can talk it over when I return, if you like."

"Train-time just up, sir; the trap is at the door!"

She walks away to the window to hide her face as her sisters come dancing in, having only just heard of Armstrong's intended departure.

"You'll be sure to be back before the theatricals, Tom? You know I'm to act in both pieces; and the Hawksbys will be disappointed if you don't put in an appearance," says Pauline effusively. "The third of May, remember!"

"You'll see me long before that."

"And, Tom dear," puts in Lottie, rubbing her cheek affectionately against his coat-sleeve, "you're going to London, aren't you? If you should any day happen to be passing before that big sweetshop in Regent Street—"

"I'll not forget you, little woman."

"You dear! And, Tom, listen! Above all things, see they give you plenty of 'Turkish delight.'"

"'Turkish delight'? I'll make a note of it."

"You'll know it easily. Don't let them put you off with cocoanut-paste; it's not the same. The 'delight' is flat and pink and sticky, powdered in sugar—you'll remember? Burnt almonds, chocolate-creams, and dragÉes are also very good at that shop; but I leave it all to yourself."

"And, Tom, if you should chance, in the course of your travels, to come across a pair of twelve-buttoned palest eau-de-Nil gloves, six-and-a-quarter, and an aigrette, Tom, of the same color, with one of those golden humming-birds posed in the center, you'll remember your poor little sister-in-law wants both articles—they are not to be had in Kelvick—to make her new ball-dress just the sweetest thing out. You'll not forget—twelve-buttoned, six-and-a-quarter, foamy green? Good by, Tom, good-by! We'll be as good as gold while you are away—you'll see!"

He kisses them hurriedly, and then approaches his wife at the window.

"Good-by, dear," he says gently, almost entreatingly, bending over her. "Won't you say a word to me, Addie?"

She turns away with a pettish gesture; then, after a lingering moment, he leaves her.

However, just when he is stepping into the dog cart, she runs out, and seizes him almost viciously by the arm.

"You're coming back? You're coming back?" she asks fiercely. "This is not a trick, a ruse, to get away and make me stay on here—is it—is it? Because—because—it won't do, I tell you; I won't stand it—nothing on earth would make me!"

"My dear child," he answers, in a tone of such genuine amazement that she is disarmed at once and a little ashamed of her impetuosity, "what an idea to take into your head! Fancy a man of my age and standing abandoning my wife, family, home—my beloved chimney-pots—at a moment's notice like this!"

"I—I believe you, and—I'll say good-by to you now, if you like," she says, laughing, and awkwardly raising her face to his.

As his mustache lightly brushes her cheek, she whispers eagerly—

"I'm sorry you're going, Tom—I'm awfully sorry. It—it would take very little to make me cry. How horrid of you to laugh like that! I shall miss you, I know, every day. Oh, can't you believe me—can't you believe me a little sometimes?"

"Twelve buttons, eau-de-Nil, six-and-a-quarter!" "Turkish delight, pink and sticky, chocolate-cream!" are the last words borne on the breeze as Armstrong drives down the avenue.

Turning suddenly to nod in acquiescence, with a throb of joy he sees a handkerchief applied to his wife's eyes.

"Could she have known—have guessed I should look round?" he thinks, in happy doubt. "In any case she might have been ready for the emergency. Bah! I believe her eyes are as dry and as bright as her precious sister's this minute. I wish—I wish I had given in about that wretched commission, though. Confound that boy! He's a desperate nuisance. Suppose I turn back and do so now? But no; if I did, her life wouldn't be worth living with him in the house. It will be time enough when I come back. I won't be more than a week away, if I can help it."

When the dog-cart has disappeared, Addie faces her brother.

"Well, Robert, I have to congratulate you on your improved prospects. I heard of them only a few minutes ago. It's a big jump from a junior clerk in a merchant's office to a lieutenancy in a cavalry regiment."

"Oh, ah, yes—Armstrong told you!" the young gentleman replies, with affected nonchalance, to hide his inward perturbation. "Yes, we have been working the thing for some time; but I did not like to tell you anything about it until it was finally settled."

"I knew all along," says Pauline triumphantly. "Isn't it grand news, Addie? Fancy, his commission arrived this morning, and you have now the honor of addressing a full-blown lieutenant in the Royal Nutshire Fusiliers. Wouldn't you almost guess it by the extra vitality of his mustache?"

"Yes," simpers Robert, "I am now a member of that gallant corps; and a rare lot of fellows some of them are. You know most of them, Polly, don't you?"

"All those worth knowing, Bob. I had an invitation, you must know, to command the regiment last Thursday."

"No! Had you, though? Fancy old Freeman turning spooney at his time of life! Well, I never! You would have been his third wife, wouldn't you, Poll?"

"I should have started with two sons and a daughter older than myself," says Pauline.

"Well, I hope he'll let me off easily during the training, for your sake, my dear."

"When did you leave Mr. Armstrong's office?" asks Addie, in a chilly voice.

"Oh, I cut the shop nearly three weeks ago! Couldn't stand it any longer, you know. It is all very well for a man brought up to that sort of thing, with mercantile parents, et cÆtera, but with me it was different. Then the society I had to mix in, to rub against officially all day—very good fellows in their way, respectable and all that, but not—not the class I could stand. I saw that from the beginning, and Armstrong himself came to acknowledge it in the end. Clear-sighted fellow, your husband, Addie. He quite understood and sympathized with my inclination for soldiering—in fact, as I learned rather to my surprise, he had done a little in that line in his early days."

"A little!" exclaimed Addie. "He served in a two-year campaign, fought in nine pitched battles, and was wounded several times, very severely indeed at Vicksburg!"

"Ah, indeed!" says Robert patronizingly. "Strange he never mentioned the fact to me until the other day, when I was quite astonished at the—ah—technical knowledge he seemed to have of military affairs, and then he casually mentioned his early experience."

"He served in the ranks, Robert—what you would do if you had any real sense of manliness and honor," remarks Addie quickly.

"What do you mean, Adelaide? How dare you address such words to me?"

"I mean what I say. I mean that lots of gentlemen's sons nowadays, who have no means of getting commissions, enlist in the ranks and work their way bravely up the tree, as you ought to do."

"You mean me—me—Robert Lefroy—to enlist as a common soldier—me to herd for years with the most degraded class of society in the kingdom! I think you are losing your senses, Adelaide," he says contemptuously.

"No, I am not, Robert; and I maintain it would be infinitely less degrading to do so than to go on sponging for years on the almost unparalleled generosity of a man with whom you are connected by no ties of kindred, and to whom we already owe a weight of obligation we can never hope to repay. Why should it be derogatory to you, if your heart is really set on soldiering, to begin in the ranks and work your way manfully, bravely up to a commission, as my husband did?"

"You cannot compare me and my estate in life," he retorts angrily, "with that of your husband, a man who never owned a grandfather, who had no prestige to support, no family to consider. It is simply senseless comparing me to him."

"It is, it is!" she answers, with kindling eyes. "My husband did not own a grandfather; but he owns an upright, proud, self respecting spirit, and he would rather, yes—I know it—a hundred times starve in the streets from which he sprung than live on another man's alms as you do, Robert Lefroy!"

"Stow that, Addie, stow that!" he cries, roughly advancing to her, glaring with anger. "I have taken a good deal from you; but I'll not stand any more. For the future, mind your own affairs and let me mind mine, and never again presume to address me on this subject. If I liked, I could retort on you, and tell you to do your duty as a wife more effectively than you do, to make your husband's life happier, instead of preaching to others; but—but, degraded and unmanly as I am, I make it a rule never to strike a woman, no matter how much she deserves it; and I'll leave you now with the warning, which I'll take measures to make you respect, that I am doing duty in this house by your husband's orders."

"I think—I think I almost hate you, Robert!" she mutters between her teeth, as he strides away. "I wish I had let you go to Calcutta a year ago with the salt—I wish I had!"

"Addie, Addie," cries Pauline, dancing in, "aren't you dressed for dinner yet? Two of our fellows—I mean the Royal Nutshire—are dining with us, you know. The dressing bell has rung."

"Two men dining here to-night! Who asked them?"

"Robert, of course. Haven't you heard the convivial orders that Tom gave before he left—that, above all things, we weren't to wear the willow for him, that we were to ask our neighbors in to spend the evening just as if he were at home, and have everything the same? Bob is in a great state about the menu, as it seems we have the reputation at the club of having the best-flavored entrÉes and the subtlest Burgundy in the county, and he naturally feels the responsibility of his position."

"Do you mean to tell me," Addie says slowly, "that my husband gave Robert the permission to ask in any guests he likes, and as often as he likes, during his absence?"

"I believe so—at least, all those whom he himself saw fit to entertain, with the exception of one or two naughty boys, the Dean's sailor-son, young Vavasour, among the number—which is rather a pity, for I like young Vavasour's roving black eyes. I must confess however that he's left us a good wide margin; so I—"

"Pauline, do you know how often we have dined absolutely en famille during the last two months? I have kept an account. Exactly fourteen times—fourteen times in sixty days! And we have given five large dinner-parties and three small dances."

"Well, what of that? I think we have done very nicely. Besides, you must remember we dined out on an average once a week, and two of your dinner-parties were for Tom's Kelvick friends, whom you insisted on entertaining. Ye gods, what entertainments they were! Never shall Bob or I get over the last bunch—Alderman Gudgeon and his lady, and the Methodist vessel, with his two ruby-nosed daughters, and the brewer's son, who sung 'In the Gloaming' and 'Nancy Lee'—never shall I forget!"

"And never shall I forget Bob's rudeness and yours that evening, Pauline, and the way you and he sat in a corner and sniggered; it was the most unladylike thing I ever saw in my life. I can tell you my husband thought so too."

"Oh, well, don't bother about that now, but go and dress for dinner! I daresay it was unladylike; but I know I couldn't help it. I have a much keener sense of the ridiculous than you, Addie, you know. Oh, by the bye, I forgot to tell you that Flo Wynyard and a cousin, a very jolly girl who is staying on a visit with her, are coming over to-morrow to remain until Tom returns; they'll keep us alive at any rate, and it will be very convenient for the rehearsals, our being together."

"More convenient still if we put the whole company up until he returns; they are only seventeen, I believe, including the supers. Better consult Robert!"

But this bit of sarcasm is quite lost on Miss Pauline, who only laughs and admits that it would be very jolly; she fears, however, that the whole company would not agree under one roof, particularly as four or five of the leading men are awfully spooney on her and unpleasantly jealous of one another.

Here the gracious voice of Robert receiving "our fellows" in the hall recalls Addie to her duty. She goes upstairs, puts on her dinner-dress, and re-appears, as sulky and uninviting a little hostess as one would care to see; but Pauline's smile and Robert's cordiality, flavored with the renowned Burgundy, fully make up for her lack of courtesy; and her guests pay no more attention to her, give no more heed to her somber looks than if she were a marble effigy of "Gloom."