Reconciled.

    “But ties around this heart were spun
    That could not, would not, be undone!”

When Mrs. Townsley entered the parlor her face was pale and careworn.  As she seated herself some little distance from the table, bearing the precious parcel upon which so many hopes were now founded, she looked up at the clock.

“I could not go out to-night; he will be leaving soon”—­there was a touch of wistfulness in her voice.  She sat for a little time sadly turning round and round the plain gold ring on her left hand.  “If he had threatened anything else but to desert me,” she went on again presently, “I could go to him; but it’s no use in trying, I cannot do it.”

She rose with a weary sigh and went over to the table and listlessly took up the parcel.  She had no curiosity as to its contents, as was shown by her sitting down again without opening it.  Resting her chin on her hand she drifted into thoughts that plainly were not happy ones.  Finally she again sighed deeply and leaned back in her chair.  Her eyes fell upon the parcel.  Indifferently she slipped off the cord and began to unwrap the paper.  Something slipped on her lap, and she looked mechanically down; the paper and string, which was still in her hand, fluttered to the floor, her lips parted, her eyes dilated and her face grew pitifully pale.  As though fascinated, she continued to gaze at the poor soiled little boots.  Her laboring heart at last threw off its torpor and drove the rich color once more back to her face, and then with a cry, full of unutterable love she caught up the precious little things, kissed, cooed, wept and fondled them passionately.  “My dear, dead darling,” she sobbed.  Sinking on her knees by the side of the chair, she fondled them afresh and pressed her lips hungrily to the spot where the inquisitive little toe had forced an opening.

Presently the sound of footsteps fell upon her ears.  She sprang to her feet.  “It is Harold!” she exclaimed excitedly.  In her new tender mood she had almost forgotten her resentment toward him.  Then an impulse flashed suddenly into her mind—­happily she acted upon it.  Hastily wrapping up the boots again, she hurriedly placed them on the table, in a position which she thought would attract her husband’s attention, and then she sped across the room and hid behind the heavy curtains which screened the deep bay window.  She had not been mistaken—­it was her husband.

He was wearing his great-coat and had evidently been preparing to go out.  She could see from her hiding-place that his absent mood was still strong upon him.

“I—­I wish,” he said, thoughtfully, to himself, as he entered the room, “that John had thought to bring the parcel; this room is filled with memories of her, and it makes it harder to go.”  He stopped and looked regretfully around the room; then, noticing the parcel, he walked listlessly over to the table, took it up and ponderingly began to unfold it; the secret the roughly folded paper held was quickly revealed.  As he held out the wee boots in the palm of his strong hand, his lips moved for a few moments, but they gave forth no sound.  When the words at last came they were pitifully broken:  “His, his boots!  My poor, poor darling!” Over and over again he repeated the words as he passionately stroked the frayed little toes.