Page:The Father Confessor, Stories of Danger and Death.djvu/252

242 guilty look upon his wife's face, when he met her upon one of her lonely walks, her confused answering to his questions as to what she was doing—everything told him something was wrong, but what he could not guess. Often after his day's work of weary business monotony, he would long for his wife's company in the evening, and though she would sit with him for a time, she would be sure to rise and leave him before long, going out to wander by herself for hours in the dusk. If on her return he reproached her, she would burst into tears, and endeavour by her tenderness to make him forgive her absence.

One evening when she started up to go, he bid her remain, and she sat down again reluctantly. He determined to speak to her about it.

"I see you have grown tired of me, Maud," he said half playfully; "you cannot bear my company."

She flushed hotly, tears coming into her eyes, yet she did not deny his half question.

Offended by her silence, he spoke no more, and turned to his paper. The moment he did so she rose and softly left the room. In a