8
IHE SUNDAY FICTION MAGAZINE, MARCH 26, 1916.
THE
WIFE
KALIS VvmAvm
I O "YOU married me to
be a mother to your.
S jgj children!- The wife
fel 9 six months spoke
ferf In a voice trembllnr
with grievous Indig
nation. ,
Impatiently her hus
band rumpled his thin, silky hair. "T don't
see, Anna, why you need carry on like
this."
"Why did you lie to me?" she de
manded. "I didn't lie t yon," he answered calm,
ly. "I never said I loved yon. I asked
yon to be my Wife. I admired you, and
my children needed bringing np. I thought
I might find in you congenial companion
ship, and we might be happy together.
You know that no one can ever take
tbe place of Clara to me."
Mrs. Raymond was silent
for a moment with suppressed
passion. Then she
said bitterly:
"I am glad to dis
cover that you did
not marry me for my
money."
A flush glowed
slowly beneath his
pale, clear skin, and
an angry look came
Into his eyes. ' .
"I have spent
some of it m being aT
mother to your chil
dren; however, yon
are welcome to It.
Twenty-flve dresses
have I made with
my own hands. I
was going to say
that I had replen
ished their ward
robes, but I might
better say that I
have furnished their
wardrobes, for they
U B u uvuo .-. -
came. For the first
time in their lives
they look like other
people's child ren.
But I am through
now."
"Don't you lore
the children?" he
asked quietly.
"They are not lov
able' she answered
cruelly. "I might
have loved "them for
their father's sake;
but I am done." Sbe
rose slowly and
walked toward tbe
door, turning at the
threshold. "Do yon
hear?" ah asked.
say that I'm done
with it all now."
If he had realized the meaning of her
words, perhaps he would have endeavored
to pacify the- exasperated wife: but he
did not, and she heard only the low re
mark: "1 hare bad no peace in the world
since Clara died." ;, -
Clara! Hot tears welled' Into Anna
Raymond's eyes as she went upstairs to
her room their room.; Clara and she had
neen irienas. 11 was- paruy through pity
for Clara that she had begun to take an
Interest In Clara's husband, Clara's chil
dren. She remembered the house as It
had been with Clara dust, disorder, cry
ing and confusion. " There was always a'
new baby, pathetically : pretty and frail.'
Tbe children were always 'shabby. If not
downright ragged."- .The 'tall. wan-eyed
mother had drooped more and moreT"un.
. . .
wer iter uurueoa uoui, aiier xne Dirtn or
little Elolse she had faded out of life as
Inconspicuously as she had dwelt in it,
and as uncomplainingly, leaving six little
ones to the care '.of their lncapabla. and
affectionate father. ' - - r -
By Mat l Bray
1Uuttrattdy Curt-Gfrocrer.
Then Anna Maynard came, one might
almost say to the rescue. She sent table
delicacies which the
slattern who supposed
ly did the housework
would never,
have made.
came over aome
times in- the
morning for a
few hours of
mend ing and
sewing for the
motherless little
flock' and their
helpless parent,
be, too, -liked to come over for an hour or
so in the evening after the children had
been put to bed, or
on a Sunday after
noon, perhaps to
read an essay or a
poem. He had once
had an essay pub
lished, and it had
The baby
wanted a
mamma!
She felt
a half
formed con-scions-ness
of .
time and
place
i . l!U Mtlh i Y W - - X,MPJ.
stw
and helped the eldest boy with his lessons.
:-r! Soon It became quite a habit for the
children to stop at Miss Maynard's - on
their .way home from - school to tell what
had happened during the day,: or perhaps
.to be refreshed with a cookie and a glass
of milk, or to pick a bouquet from her
well-kept garden. They were near neigh
bors,, and by and by Mr Raymond would'
walk home with herefrom church. And
proved his undoing, for he had spent sine
then in the preparation of articles not
only unaccepted ' but unacceptable time
which, had It been applied to bis business,
would have enabled him to' supply not
only necessities but comforts to his broods
When Anally he asked her to marry
htm Anna Maynard capable, splendidly
healthy, a contented spinster of good lry
come hesitated nut tittle. She knew his
faults, but they endeared him to her; his
weaknesses sbe almost cherished, his van
ity she forgave, and she loved him for his
kind, impulsive ways, his smooth, white
hands, his almost childlike eyes She
blushed as beautifully as any young girl
when ah answered, with a primness of
speech contrasting with her happy eyes:
"You pay me the greatest honor, Mr.
Raymond. . Yes, X will be your wife." .
She had thought warmly of the chil
dren, and all she would, do for them for
his sake. They should have pretty dresses
and well-kept hair, and be taught the
manners that nice children ought to have.
.Her money, with his, would enable them
to have better things. Of course it meant
that she would have to practice a little
self-denial, but one should be more than
willing-to relinquish a few luxuries for
the Joy of making beautiful his family
and his home their family and their
home.
Ail this was only a few months, ago.
Memories passed unkindly through- her
mind as she emptied drawers of their
contents, took dresses from the closet and
packed them in her trunk. Tbe brown
silk was her wedding dress. She recalled
bitterly the plans made in love that day. j
The blue Henrietta she had worn on the
Sunday afternoon when he asked her the
question that had changed all the current
of her -days! Her hand paused as she held
It over the open tray, and her eyes looked
into the distance. The sable furl She
had spoken , of remodeling it for
Nancy, the 10-year-old girl,; whose "
hh uw uuproieciea , mroai
was always being injured by the
winter cold.
"I am glad," she
thought , grimly, as she
put It into her trunk. .
"that I have stopped
short of giving away my
own clothes."
But when she snapped
the lid and turned the
key her heart! softened,
the firm lips quivered
and tears . ran down her '
cheeks. It was sad satis-
twenty-five - new dresses
for the girls, the neat
jiuiU for th boy. Throw-
tng herself on the
bed, she cried softly.
"But I'll be no man's
house keeper,'.' she
thought. "And ; I've
don my duty to
them all. It's their
own fault now -that
I'm going away."
Anna, went back
to her own house,
which had been for
rent, bat luckily was
now vacant, and re
sumed her old occu
pations, tending, the
garden, running the
ladies' guild, enter
"tainlng , her -ft any
friends, dp i a g the
,; thousand - a a d - one
things that s well.
' to-do, kindly unmar
ried woman may find
to do. W hen ? her
, more daring " friends
ventured to ask tlm
f Idly why she had re
turned to life alone, she
answered ' calmly s that
Mr. Raymond and she
: bad ncade a mistake in
marrying, and had
found fthat they were
happier apart.
But for an the ap-.
. . , , pearanee- - to outsiders,
life in the old Maynard house : was- not
as. It had been before Its mistress went