Mrs. Addix was still asleep. She had begun to snore, in an odd sort
of fashion, with deep, regular puffs of breath; it was like the
beating of a drum to peace and rest, after a day of weary and
unskilled labor unprofitable to the soul. Maria sat down again. She
took up her work. She felt very wicked, but she felt better.



Chapter VIII


When Maria's father returned that night, he came, as usual, straight
to the room wherein she and Mrs. Addix were sitting. Maria regarded
her father with a sort of contemptuous wonder, tinctured with
unwilling admiration. Her father, on his return from his evenings
spent with Miss Ida Slome, looked always years younger than Maria had
ever seen him. There was the humidity of youth in his eyes, the flush
of youth on his cheeks, the triumph of youth in his expression. Harry
Edgham, in spite of lines on his face, in spite, even, of a shimmer
of gray and thinness of hair on the temples, looked as young as youth
itself, in this rejuvenation of his affection, for he was very much
in love with the woman whom he was to marry. He had been faithful to
his wife while she lived, even the imagination of love for another
woman had not entered his heart. His wife's faded face had not for a
second disturbed his loyalty; but now the beauty of this other woman
aroused within him long dormant characteristics, like some wonderful
stimulant, not only for the body, but for the soul. When he looked in
Ida Slome's beautiful face he seemed to drink in an elixir of life.
And yet, down at the roots of the man's heart slept the memory of his