of conversation, love has quick eyes. He saw below the surface, and he divined the heart-burnings and disappointments which he would scarcely admit or give a name to, even in his inmost consciousness.
One night in March, a cold, clear, frosty night, he was sitting alone by his fireside. His dinner had been highly satisfactory, and he was serenely smoking his second pipe. The thought in his heart was Sarah Benson. He could see that his last effort to save Steve had not been altogether successful. During the Christmas week the restless man had renewed his old habits, and ever since the hard struggle to keep him at work had been manifest to Jonathan in Sarah's anxious face. That very day Steve's loom had been silent and vacant, and though he had taken no notice of the fact, Sarah's downcast eyes, and the hot flush that suffused her face when he entered the room, told him how severely she felt the shame of Steve's absence.
As he sat still, he was wondering what was the best thing to do in the case, for he had no thought of giving it up. Had he not said, until seventy times seven? And he knew well that,
