He accused me of leading him on, and playing with him; and he said something about an immutable law of chance, and a governing balance of events—that I couldn’t understand, only where he said that for all the suffering we inflict on others, we receive an equal amount ourselves. Then he went away—in such a passion. I’ve imagined ever since that he would take some revenge—he might steal our Myra—our baby.” She strained the smiling child to her breast and went on. “I liked him at first, until I found out that he was an atheist—why, George, he actually denied the existence of God—and to me, a professing Christian.”

“He had a wonderful nerve,” said the husband, with a smile; “didn’t know you very well, I should say.”

“He never seemed the same to me after that,” she resumed; “I felt as though in the presence of something unclean. Yet I thought how glorious it would be if I could save him to God, and tried to convince him of the loving care of Jesus; but he only ridiculed all I hold sacred, and said, that much as he valued my good opinion, he would not be a hypocrite to gain it, and that he would be honest with himself and others, and express his honest unbelief—the idea; as though one could be honest without God’s help—and then, one day, I smelled liquor on his breath—he always smelled of tobacco—and I gave him up. It was then that he that he broke out.”

“Come out and show me this reprobate,” said the husband, rising. They went to the door and the young woman peered out. “He is the last man down there—close to the cabin,” she said as she drew in. The husband stepped out.

“What! that hang-dog ruffian, scouring the ventilator? So, that’s Rowland, of the navy, is it! Well, this is a tumble. Wasn’t he broken for conduct unbecoming an officer? Got roaring drunk at the President’s levee, didn’t he? I think I read of it.”

“I know he lost his position and was terribly disgraced,” answered the wife.