that Billy would not wish him to go: always before
his eyes was the vision of that little bride of
years long gone; always in his ears was the echo
of Aunt Hannah's ``I shall never forget the utter
freedom and happiness of those months for us,
with the whole house to ourselves.'' Nor, turn
which way he would, could he find anything to
comfort him. Simply because he was so fearfully
looking for it, he found it--the thing that had
for its theme the wretchedness that might be
expected from the presence of a third person in the
new home.

Poor William! Everywhere he met it--the
hint, the word, the story, the song, even; and
always it added its mite to the woeful whole.
Even the hoariest of mother-in-law jokes had its
sting for him; and, to make his cup quite full, he
chanced to remember one day what Marie had
said when he had suggested that she and Cyril
come to the Strata to live: ``No; I think young
folks should begin by themselves.''

Unhappy, indeed, were these days for William.
Like a lost spirit he wandered from room
to room, touching this, fingering that. For long
minutes he would stand before some picture, or
some treasured bit of old mahogany, as if to
stamp indelibly upon his mind a thing that was
soon to be no more. At other times, like a man