such things, but she remembered through a delicious haze. She felt a
charming warmth pervade all her veins. She was no longer unhappy.
Nothing seemed to matter. She soon fell asleep.

As for Harry Edgham, he entered the empty room which he had occupied
with his dead wife. He set the lamp on the floor and approached the
paper, which poor little Maria, in her fit of futile rebellion, had
torn. He carefully tore off still more, making a clean strip of the
paper where Maria had made a ragged one. When he had finished, it
looked as if the paper had in reality dropped off because of
carelessness in putting on. He gathered up the pieces of paper and
stood looking about the room.

There is something about an empty room, empty except of memories, but
containing nothing besides, no materialities, no certainties as to
the future, which is intimidating to one who stops and thinks. Harry
Edgham was not, generally speaking, of the sort who stop to think;
but now he did. The look of youth faded from his face. Instead of the
joy and triumph which had filled his heart and made it young again,
came remembrance of the other woman, and something else, which
resembled terror and dread. For the first time he deliberated whether
he was about to do a wise thing: for the first time, the image of Ida
Slome's smiling beauty, which was ever evident to his fancy, produced
in him something like doubt and consternation. He looked about the
room, and remembered the old pieces of furniture which had that day
been carried away. He looked at the places where they had stood. Then
he remembered his dead wife, as he had never remembered her before,
with an anguish of loss. He said to himself that if he only had her
back, even with her faded face and her ready tongue, that old,
settled estate would be better for him than this joy, which at once