self, in a wider practical experience of life? Did such experience really strengthen the basis of character which must support a man, when some unexpected moral crisis comes upon him? He knew that he seemed strong, to Joseph; but the latter, so far, was bearing his terrible test with a patience drawn from some source of elemental power. Joseph had simply been ignorant: he had been proud, impatient, and—he now confessed to himself—weakly jealous. In both cases, a mistake had passed beyond the plastic stage where life may still be remoulded: it had hardened into an inexorable fate. What was to be the end of it all?
A light footstep interrupted his reflections. He looked up, and almost started, on finding himself face to face with Mrs. Hopeton.
Her face was flushed from her walk and the mellow warmth of the afternoon. She held a bunch of wild-flowers,—pink azaleas, delicate sigillarias, valerian, and scarlet painted-cup. She first broke the silence by asking after Madeline.
"Busy with some important sewing,—curtains, I fancy. She is becoming an inveterate housekeeper," Philip said.
"I am glad, for her sake, that she is here. And it must be very pleasant for you, after all your wanderings."
"I must look on it, I suppose," Philip answered, "as the only kind of a home I shall ever have,—while it lasts. But Madeline's life must not be mutilated because mine happens to be."
The warm color left Mrs. Hopeton's face. She strove to make her voice cold and steady, as she said: "I am sorry to see you growing so bitter, Mr. Held."
"I don't think it is my proper nature, Mrs. Hopeton. But you startled me out of a retrospect which had exhaust-
