which rested the air-tight stove, he became suddenly aware of a strange tugging at his heart-strings. He thought of his own cheerless rooms; his meals hurriedly partaken of at restaurants or boarding-houses, or in the solitude of his apartments; of his own lonely life extending on and on, until it ended in a forlorn old age cheered only by his books.
He had indulged his ruling passion, and now he was beginning to experience, instead of the content which should accompany realized ambition, a consciousness of longing and disappointment.
Had his life's struggle been worth the while? He suddenly began to doubt it.
"What ails you, Antoine, you've hardly said a word since supper?" his vis-a-vis was saying. Her voice was sympathetic; she pitied her old friend's loneliness and grieved over his threadbare clothes and badly-tied cravat. Although his junior by a couple of years, she could not but regard him with an almost motherly interest, he was so young and guileless regarding all worldly wisdom.
She laid aside her knitting and came and stood by Antoine and touched his forehead lightly with her firm, shapely fingers.
"Nothing the matter with your temperature, Antoine," she laughed. "I guess you're only moody or absent-minded."
The touch of her light fingers caused Antoine's heart to beat with great rapidity, and all at once the vision of his cheerless home was supplemented by one in which his charming vis-a-vis became a fixture. And why should not this vision be materialized?
He hesitated. It was a matter of choosing between the two. He knew he could not serve two masters.
The pretty Widow Cassner had a small income which she eked out by putting up preserves and jellies, and by letting her rooms to one or two young ladies. She had worked hard, and her life had not been one of unalloyed ease and enjoyment, though no one would have dreamed so from her bright, cheerful bearing.
What had Antoine to offer?
His books. Ah, they would bring a goodly sum. He knew a score of dealers who longed to gather in his many treasures. If they were sold, he would be able to provide handsomely for any woman of simple tastes.
He suddenly determined to sell his books. He would not let himself pause to consider the cost of such a sacrifice. He was beside the little widow, pouring into her ears an eloquent appeal. His library was at her feet,—"rare prints" and "old editions," "original boards" and "uncut edges."
His arm was around her. He begged her to take pity upon his loneliness; to make his cheerless home a heavenly paradise with her bright presence.
