side. . . . There she sat, there she lay, his wife: she had fallen asleep with weariness and anxiety for him, her arms on the table, her face on her arms. . . . Was it his imagination, or had she really changed? He had not noticed her for weeks, since his illness, had not looked at her, though she had nursed him all the time. . . . Certainly he was very fond of her; but she was doing her duty as his wife. She had borne him his children and she was nursing him now that he was ill. Had he been wrong in thinking like that? Yes, perhaps it had not been right of him. . . . Gad, how she had changed! How different from the young, fresh face that she used to have, the little mother-girl, the little child-mother! Was it the ghostly effect of the faint light or was it so? Was she so pale and thin and tired . . . with anxiety about him, with nursing and looking after him? . . . He felt his heart swelling. He had never loved her as he did now! He bent down and kissed her . . . with a fonder kiss than he had ever given her. She just quivered in her sleep: she was sound asleep. . . . Lord, how tired she was! How pale she was, how thin! She lay broken with worry and weariness, her head in her arms. . . .
"Adeline. . . ."
She did not answer, she slept. . . . He would not wake her; he would ring for the fire and the lamp himself. . . But what was the good?
