"You try me," said Mrs. Hatchard, with a hard laugh. "I can keep myself.
You leave me the furniture--most of it is mine--and I sha'n't worry you
again."

"Mind!" said Mr. Hatchard, raising his hand with great solemnity. "If I
go, I never come back again."

"I'll take care of that," said his wife, equably. "You are far more
likely to ask to come back than I am."

Mr. Hatchard stood for some time in deep thought, and then, spurred on by
a short, contemptuous laugh from his wife, went to the small passage and,
putting on his overcoat and hat, stood in the parlor doorway regarding
her.

"I've a good mind to take you at your word," he said, at last.

"Good-night," said his wife, briskly. "If you send me your address, I'll
send your things on to you. There's no need for you to call about them."

Hardly realizing the seriousness of the step, Mr. Hatchard closed the
front door behind him with a bang, and then discovered that it was
raining. Too proud to return for his umbrella, he turned up his
coat-collar and, thrusting his hands in his pockets, walked slowly down
the desolate little street. By the time he had walked a dozen yards he
began to think that he might as well have waited until the morning;
before he had walked fifty he was certain of it.

He passed the night at a coffee-house, and rose so early in the morning
that the proprietor took it as a personal affront, and advised him to get