How tenderly, how truly, how devotedly had Edward Claire loved the
young wife of his bosom, since the hour the pulses of their spirits
first beat in joyful unity! How eager had he ever been to turn his
face homeward when the shadows of evening began to fall! But now he
lingered--lingered, though all the business of the day was over. The
thought of his wife created no quick impulse to be away. He felt more
like shunning her presence. He even for a time indulged a motion of
anger toward her for what he mentally termed her morbid sensitiveness
in regard to others' right--her dreamy ideal of human perfection.

"We are in the world, and we must do as it does. We must take it as it
is, not as it should be."

So he mused with himself, in a self-approving argument. Yet he could
not banish the accusing spirit; he could not silence the inward voice
of warning.

Once there came a strong revulsion. Good impulses seemed about to
gain the mastery. In this state of mind, he took from his pocket his
ill-gotten gains, and threw them into the money-box, which had already
been placed in the fire-closet.

"What good will that do?" said he to himself, as the wave of better
feelings began to subside. "All the sales-entries have been made, and
the cash balanced; Jasper made the balance himself. So the cash
will only show an excess to be accounted for; and from this may
come suspicion. It is always more hazardous to go backward than
forward--(false reasoner!)--to retrace our steps than to press boldly
onward. No, no. This will not mend the matter."