“Yes, Agatha, several things.”
The sudden change from jest to deep earnest startled the wife so much that she was struck dumb.
“Circumstances may happen,” he continued, “which a husband cannot always tell to his wife, especially a man of my queer temper and lonely ways. I always knew that the woman I married would have much to bear from me. Did I not tell her so, poor little Agatha?” And he tried to take her hand.
“You are talking in this way to soothe me, but I know well what you mean. No husband ever really thinks himself in fault, but his wife. Emma always said so.”
Mr. Harper dropped the unwilling hand; but the next moment, by a strong effort, reclaimed it firmly.
“Agatha, are we beginning again to be angry with one another? Is there never to be peace between us?”
“Peace” only? Nothing closer, dearer? Yet what was it that, as Agatha looked at her husband, made her think even his “peace” better than any other's love?
“Yes,” she murmured, after watching him long in silence—“yes, there shall be peace. Whatever I am, I know how good you are. And,” she added, gaily, “now let me unfold a plan of mine for proving how good we both are.”
“What is it?”
“I want some money—a good deal.”