type-writing, glowing with exercise, and the happiness of contributing
at least some hundreds to meet her husband's creditors. He was there,
lying on the sofa, pale and hopeless. Forgetting all else, she flung
herself beside him with a sob.

"Oh! Harry, my dearest! Tell me what it is that is killing you--I have a
right to know."

"It is ruin, Eleanor. I have brought you to poverty--you whom I would
have given my very life to make happy."

"You are talking in riddles, Harry," she exclaimed, rallying from her
alarm. "Am I not the happiest woman in the world? And don't you see how
well and strong I am?"

She coaxed the whole story from his lips. Then with affected lightness,
she said: "Is that all? Why, you frightened me terribly; I thought you
were ill--had caught some horrible disease or other. See here!"

As she spoke she ran to her desk, took out her treasure, and poured it
into his hands in her impulsive fashion.

"Eleanor! What is this?" staring like one dazed, from her radiant face
to the notes in his hands.

"This? Why, this is only your silly wife's laziness and selfishness in
another form."

Then her story had to be told. Their combined efforts still fell short
of the required sum, but she triumphantly produced the deed to the