single contrasting note, would, I feel, grow maddening. I suppose," I
continued, "I am a strange sort of man; I can hardly understand myself at
times. There are moments," I added, "when I hate myself."

Often a little speech like this, hinting at hidden depths of
indescribable emotion has touched Ethelbertha, but to-night she appeared
strangely unsympathetic. With regard to heaven and its possible effect
upon me, she suggested my not worrying myself about that, remarking it
was always foolish to go half-way to meet trouble that might never come;
while as to my being a strange sort of fellow, that, she supposed, I
could not help, and if other people were willing to put up with me, there
was an end of the matter. The monotony of life, she added, was a common
experience; there she could sympathise with me.

"You don't know I long," said Ethelbertha, "to get away occasionally,
even from you; but I know it can never be, so I do not brood upon it."

I had never heard Ethelbertha speak like this before; it astonished and
grieved me beyond measure.

"That's not a very kind remark to make," I said, "not a wifely remark."

"I know it isn't," she replied; "that is why I have never said it before.
You men never can understand," continued Ethelbertha, "that, however fond
a woman may be of a man, there are times when he palls upon her. You
don't know how I long to be able sometimes to put on my bonnet and go
out, with nobody to ask me where I am going, why I am going, how long I
am going to be, and when I shall be back. You don't know how I sometimes
long to order a dinner that I should like and that the children would
like, but at the sight of which you would put on your hat and be off to