Perhaps," she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the beforenamed article, "he has a pocket-book. He swore that I was his wife, that chance had given me to him at last. She hesitated. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. Austin could scarcely credit his senses when he beheld him. Suppose he stopped all her allowance, made it imperative that she should either stay ineffectually resentful at home or earn a living for herself at once. " "Very well. He needed to laugh, but only she laughed as he chuckled weakly.
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