----For the first time in life you deceive her. You have won wealth again; you now step firmly upon your new-gained sandals of gold. But you conceal it from her. You contrive a little scheme of surprise, with Frank alone in the secret.
You purchase again the old home; you stock it, as far as may be, with the old luxuries; a new harp is in the place of that one which beguiled so many hours of joy; new and cherished flowers bloom again upon the windows; her birds hang, and warble their melody where they warbled it before. A pony—like as possible to the old—is there for Madge; a fête is secretly contrived upon the lawn. You even place the old, familiar books upon the parlor-table.
The birthday of your own Madge is approaching,—a fête you never pass by without home rejoicings. You drive over with her upon that morning for another look at the old place; a cloud touches her brow,—but she yields to your wish. An old servant—whom you had known in better days—throws open the gates.
----"It is too, too sad," says Madge. "Let us go back, Clarence, to our own home;—we are happy there."
----"A little farther, Madge."
The wife steps slowly over what seems the sepulchre of so many pleasures; the children gambol as of old, and pick flowers. But the mother checks them.
"They are not ours now, my children!"
You stroll to the very door; the goldfinches are hanging upon the wall; the mignonette is in the window. You feel the hand of Madge trembling upon your arm; she is struggling with her weakness.
A tidy waiting-woman shows you into the old parlor:—there is a harp; and there, too, such books as we loved to read.
Madge is overcome; now she entreats:—"Let us go away, Clarence!" and she hides her face.