"Oh, don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
And the master so kind and so true;
And the little nook by the clear running brook,
Where we gathered the flowers as they grew?"

The dark-browed man listened, and thought. Her name was Alice, this
woman by his side. They had been schoolmates together, had gathered
flowers, oh, how many times, by brook-side and hill. They had grown up
to be lovers, and she was his wife, sitting here now beside him,--his
wife, with his baby in her arms; and he had not spoken to her for a
week. What began it all? He hardly knew; but she had been provoking,
and he had been tired, impatient; there had been a great scene, and
then this silence, which he swore he would not break. How sad she
looked! he thought, as he stole a glance at the face bending over the
child.

"Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,
Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown?"

Was she singing about them, this child? She had sung at their wedding,
a little thing of seven years old; and old De Arthenay had played, and
wished them happiness, and said they were the handsomest couple he had
played for that year. Now she looked so tired: how was it that he had
never seen how tired she looked? Perhaps she was only sick or nervous
that day when she spoke so. The child stirred in its mother's arms,
and she gave a low sigh of weariness, and shifted the weight to the
other arm. The young man bent forward and took the baby, and felt how
heavy it had grown since last he held it. He had not said anything, he
would not say anything--just yet; but his wife turned to him with such
a smile, such a flash of love and joy, imploring, promising, that his