The gates ajar. By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.

102 The Gates Ajar.
"I will think the matter over," she said, by
and by, in her natural tones, "and let you know
to-night."
She went away up stairs then, and I did not
see her again until to-night. I sent Faith up
with her dinner and tea, judging that she
would rather see the child than me. I observed, when the dishes came down, that she
had touched nothing but a cup of coffee.
I began to understand, as I sat alone in the
parlor through the afternoon, how much I had
asked of her. In my selfish distress at losing
her, I had not thought of that. Faces that
her husband loved, meadows and hills and sunsets that he has watched, the home where his
last step sounded and his last word was spoken,
the grave where she has laid him, - this last
more than all, — call after her, and cling to
her with yearning closeness. To leave them,
is to leave the last faint shadow of her beautiful
past. It hurts, but she is too brave to cry out.
Tea was over, and Faith in bed, but still she
did not come down. I was sitting by the window, watching a little crescent moon climb over
the hills, and wondering whether I had better
go up, when she came in and stood behind me.
and said, attempting o laugh: