dear," she replied laughingly, and took it out of his hand. He made no answer, but turned back to his newspaper. Presently he said he must go down town; he had an engagement. He kissed her good-by in an absent sort of way and was gone.
"Poor dear Tom!" thought Susan. "He certainly is worried about something. It is too bad," and she set herself to work to make the best of a lonely evening. The evenings which Tom spent away from home were so rare, that it always seemed to Susan a fresh and surprising deprivation when one occurred. The loneliness of the house to her when Tom was out of it, could not be expressed; the very furniture seemed to take on a totally different expression. The clock struck ten, eleven, Tom did not return. Finally, Susan went to bed, and fell asleep, wondering what had become of him. The next morning his face wore the same grave and unnatural look. He hardly spoke, and when he did speak, the words were constrained. Susan was now thoroughly uneasy.
"Dear Tom," she said, "do tell me what is the matter."
"Nothing," was the only reply she could extract from him.
"Tom, I know something is the matter," she exclaimed, vehemently. "Are you ill?"
"Not in the least."
"Then something has gone wrong in business something worries you."
