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she might have some unpleasant truths to tell him. Nessie never thrust her truths upon him, but when he pressed her she told him honestly what she thought and never made any allowance for his sensibilities in her religious adherence to verity. She would not feed him comfortable untruths, which if repeated often enough and earnestly enough, might in time become truths. And there occurred to Belshue the disquieting fact that an ability and willingness to lie with emotion and conviction were perhaps the most precious traits of character which any wife could bring to any husband.

The jeweller came out of these odd reflections to the matter in hand.

"Anyway, he won't make you cry any more, Nessie. I ordered him off the place."

The girl looked at her husband with widened eyes. "You didn't, Mr. Belshue!"

"Why, certainly, I did; do you want him to—" Again he broke off his natural exclamation to avoid a frank answer and substituted, "You don't want him to make you cry, do you?"

"No-o," hesitated Nessie, "I suppose it is best." Then, plucking up her resolution, "But nobody ever comes here, Mr. Belshue, now that Lizzie has gone. . . ."

"I'll get you another cook!" exclaimed the jeweller, annoyed. "It seems I'm no company."

"Yes, you are, but—but it's lonesome for both of us, and—and when somebody comes, once in a long while. . . ."

The jeweller was exasperated. His wife practised shifts and evasions well enough when it came to—well, what had it come to?—to something she herself desired; but for him, she had nothing but flint-like truths. The torment hidden in Belshue's soul suddenly rose up.

"Nessie," he cried, "I should think mere gratitude for what I have done for you would make you see—make you feel—" He paused a moment with a spasm twitching the muscles of his face. "You—you still love him," he said in a throaty tone, "that's the trouble!"