reached the grave, till she was laid by the side of John's father and mother to await the coming of John and James and those who followed them. No, it was not strange to be young; it was strange to be old, strange and impossible! It was strange to have married John—John who was never her mate. She never saw him without thinking that, without feeling a shock of surprise at seeing him come up the path, a little, bald, commonplace man, beaming on her in the complete satisfaction of his choice. Yes, she had satisfied John, but so would any woman who had done all she had done—looked to his home and made all comfortable, reared his child, and sat seemingly content beside his fire. How could John know what he had married when her sense of duty and her knowledge of his limitations made her silent? He never heard the torrent of unrest that roared in her ears, and flowed through her heart, till sometimes it seemed as though it must break its way through. She was like a green field, placid and restful to the eyes, while underneath, deep down, crept a fierce stream never seen, but threatening always disaster to the fair pasture above.
