never do it at his present rate of living,"

"Why doesn't he tell her? Has she no sense, or feeling at all?"

"None, except for herself; and he is so fond of her that he will indulge
her to his very last cent."

"I thought he looked a little down as he passed us this morning."

"Yes, he is beginning to realize that he has gone too far, and, poor
fellow, it is tugging at him hard."

Did she hear aright? Was it of her, Eleanor Woodruff, that they were
talking? Swiftly she sped out of the dark, heavily-curtained back parlor
of the stylish boarding-house, and into her room, a gorgeous alcove
apartment on the first floor. She could not mount the stairs on account
of her weak spine. Weak spine? She forgot all about it as she paced the
floor, angry tears gushing from her large brown eyes. It was shameful--it
was wicked--to be so abused. She had never in her whole petted life been
found fault with. As to money, what did she know about it? Her father,
before his failure and death, had always gratified her. Her husband had
never made any difference. These men were friends of his.

Her bitter sobs ceased, and her wounded vanity gradually lost itself
in better thoughts. Did all her world think of her like the scathing
criticisms of those two chance callers, who thus killed the time of
waiting for someone to come down to them? She began to feel glad that
she had overheard it. The merest accident had sent her into the back
parlor. Was it true? What ought she to do? What could she do? Her dear,
kind husband in trouble, and she the cause. Long she sat buried in