came home to dinner provokingly good-natured.  She had met an old school-mate and her husband driving home from the mountains, and had first taken them over her factory, to their great amusement and delight, and then had brought them home to dinner.  Tom greeted them cordially, and manifested his usual graceful hospitality; but the minute he saw his wife alone he said in a plaintive tone of rebuke, “I should think you might have remembered that the servants are unusually busy to-day.  I do wish you would take a little interest in things at home.  The women have been washing, and I’m sure I don’t know what sort of a dinner we can give your friends.  I wish you had thought to bring home some steak.  I have been busy myself, and couldn’t go down to the village.  I thought we would only have a lunch.”

Mary was hungry, but she said nothing, except that it would be all right,—­she didn’t mind; and perhaps they could have some canned soup.

She often went to town to buy or look at cotton, or to see some improvement in machinery, and she brought home beautiful bits of furniture and new pictures for the house, and showed a touching thoughtfulness in remembering Tom’s fancies; but somehow he had an uneasy suspicion that she could get along pretty well without him when it came to the deeper wishes and hopes of her life, and that her most important concerns were all matters in which he had no share.  He seemed to himself to have merged his life in his wife’s; he lost his interest in things outside the house and grounds; he felt himself fast growing rusty and behind the times, and to have somehow missed a good deal in life; he had a suspicion that he was a failure.  One day the thought rushed over him that his had been almost exactly the experience of most women, and he wondered if it really was any more disappointing and ignominious to him than it was to women themselves.  “Some of them may be contented with it,” he said to himself, soberly.  “People think women are designed for such careers by nature, but I don’t know why I ever made such a fool of myself.”

Having once seen his situation in life from such a standpoint, he felt it day by day to be more degrading, and he wondered what he should do about it; and once, drawn by a new, strange sympathy, he went to the little family burying ground.  It was one of the mild, dim days that come sometimes in early November, when the pale sunlight is like the pathetic smile of a sad face, and he sat for a long time on the limp, frost-bitten grass beside his mother’s grave.

But when he went home in the twilight his step-mother, who just then was making them a little visit, mentioned that she had been looking through some boxes of hers that had been packed long before and stowed away in the garret.  “Everything looks very nice up there,” she said, in her wheezing voice (which, worse than usual that day, always made him nervous); and added, without any intentional slight to his feelings, “I do think you have always been a most excellent housekeeper.”