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 be the man's disappointment, the man's crushed ideals in his marriage. Because he bears it like a man, because he makes the best of what fate has allotted him, often without a word of complaint, we think that the tragedy of marriage is entirely one-sided.

That day, as the young fellow came in, shy and awkward, carrying a small bundle in his hand, prejudiced though I was against him, I somehow felt that there was his side, too. Perhaps it was his extreme youth, his good looks, which touched me; or perhaps it was the expression of misery on his face. Poets and writers have written about the woman's heart-break, but it is the sorrow of the strong which contains the most pathos.

He timidly took his seat at a distance from her, and fingered the little parcel on his knee.

An oppressive silence fell upon us, I furtively watching the youth, he longingly gazing at his bride. Finally he began to undo his parcel, and his movements were so like those of a little boy that I was ready to weep for him.

The parcel disclosed a beautifully embroidered pair of Turkish slippers. I suppose they were the prettiest he could buy, but even at a glance I knew that they were far too large for Nashan.

He rose and advanced timidly, his offering in his hand.

"I brought you these," he said pleadingly.