It was on a May day, and I saw Mary accompany her husband as faras the first crossing, whence she waved him out of sight as if hehad boarded an Atlantic-liner. All this time she wore the faceof a woman happily married who meant to go straight home, thereto await her lord's glorious return; and the military-lookinggentleman watching her with a bored smile saw nothing betterbefore him than a chapter on the Domestic Felicities. Oh, Mary,can you not provide me with the tiniest little plot?

Hallo!

No sooner was she hid from him than she changed into anotherwoman; she was now become a calculating purposeful madam, wholooked around her covertly and, having shrunk in size in order toappear less noticeable, set off nervously on some mysteriousadventure.

"The deuce!" thought I, and followed her.

Like one anxious to keep an appointment, she frequently consultedher watch, looking long at it, as if it were one of those watchesthat do not give up their secret until you have made a mentalcalculation. Once she kissed it. I had always known that shewas fond of her cheap little watch, which he gave her, I think,on the day I dropped the letter, but why kiss it in the street? Ah, and why then replace it so hurriedly in your leather-belt,Mary, as if it were guilt to you to kiss to-day, or any day, thewatch your husband gave you?

It will be seen that I had made a very rapid journey from lightthoughts to uneasiness. I wanted no plot by the time she reachedher destination, a street of tawdry shops. She entered none ofthem, but paced slowly and shrinking from observation up and downthe street, a very figure of shame; and never had I thought toread shame in the sweet face of Mary A----. Had I crossed to herand pronounced her name I think it would have felled her, and yetshe remained there, waiting. I, too, was waiting for him,wondering if this was the man, or this, or this, and I believe Iclutched my stick.

Did I suspect Mary? Oh, surely not for a moment of time. Butthere was some foolishness here; she was come without theknowledge of her husband, as her furtive manner indicated, to ameeting she dreaded and was ashamed to tell him of; she was comeinto danger; then it must be to save, not herself but him; thefolly to be concealed could never have been Mary's. Yet whatcould have happened in the past of that honest boy from theconsequences of which she might shield him by skulking here?Could that laugh of his have survived a dishonour? The openforehead, the curly locks, the pleasant smile, the hundredingratiating ways which we carry with us out of childhood, theymay all remain when the innocence has fled, but surely the laughof the morning of life must go. I have never known the devilretain his grip on that.

But Mary was still waiting. She was no longer beautiful; shamehad possession of her face, she was an ugly woman. Then theentanglement was her husband's, and I cursed him for it. Butwithout conviction, for, after all, what did I know of women? Ihave some distant memories of them, some vain inventions. But ofmen--I have known one man indifferent well for over forty years,have exulted in him (odd to think of it), shuddered at him,wearied of him, been willing (God forgive me) to jog along withhim tolerantly long after I have found him out; I know somethingof men, and, on my soul, boy, I believe I am wronging you.

Then Mary is here for some innocent purpose, to do a good deedthat were better undone, as it so scares her. Turn back, youfoolish, soft heart, and I shall say no more about it. Obstinateone, you saw the look on your husband's face as he left you. Itis the studio light by which he paints and still sees to hope,despite all the disappointments of his not ignoble ambitions.That light is the dower you brought him, and he is a wealthy manif it does not flicker.

So anxious to be gone, and yet she would not go. Several timesshe made little darts, as if at last resolved to escape from thatdetestable street, and faltered and returned like a bird to theweasel. Again she looked at her watch and kissed it.

Oh, Mary, take flight. What madness is this? Woman, be gone.

Suddenly she was gone. With one mighty effort and a lastterrified look round, she popped into a pawnshop.

Long before she emerged I understood it all, I think even as thedoor rang and closed on her; why the timid soul had sought astreet where she was unknown, why she crept so many times pastthat abhorred shop before desperately venturing in, why shelooked so often at the watch she might never see again. Sodesperately cumbered was Mary to keep her little house over herhead, and yet the brave heart was retaining a smiling face forher husband, who must not even know where her little treasureswere going.

It must seem monstrously cruel of me, but I was now quite light-hearted again. Even when Mary fled from the shop where she hadleft her watch, and I had peace of mind to note how thin and wornshe had become, as if her baby was grown too big for her slightarms, even then I was light-hearted. Without attempting tofollow her, I sauntered homeward humming a snatch of song with agreat deal of fal-de-lal-de-riddle-o in it, for I can neverremember words. I saw her enter another shop, baby linen shop orsome nonsense of that sort, so it was plain for what she hadpopped her watch; but what cared I? I continued to sing mostbeautifully. I lunged gayly with my stick at a lamp-post andmissed it, whereat a street-urchin grinned, and I winked at himand slipped twopence down his back.

I presume I would have chosen the easy way had time been givenme, but fate willed that I should meet the husband on hishomeward journey, and his first remark inspired me to a folly.

"How is Timothy?" he asked; and the question opened a way soattractive that I think no one whose dull life craves for colourcould have resisted it.

"He is no more," I replied impulsively.

The painter was so startled that he gave utterance to a very oathof pity, and I felt a sinking myself, for in these hasty words mylittle boy was gone, indeed; all my bright dreams of Timothy, allmy efforts to shelter him from Mary's scorn, went whistling downthe wind.