A Rose of Yesterday

papers for amusement, or for the sort of excitement produced on nervous minds by short, strong shocks often repeated. There are persons who ponder the paper dail

money to a hospital. When they have asked all the questions they can think of, without waiting for an answer, they relapse into their normal condition, and become again as other men and women are. Very few really re

ng the half-dozen or so which she had received. It was the regular report from the asylum, posted on the first of the month. But it was thicker than usual; and when she tore open the envelope, rather nervously and with a sudden anticipation of tr

f the people about him, and had not afterwards confused them, but remembered them with remarkable accuracy. Day by day he had improved, and was still improving. He had enquired about the state of his affairs, and had wished to see one or two of his old friends. More than once he had asked after his wife, and had evidently been glad to hear that she was well. Then he had written a letter

ees to the floor while she was reading. When she had got to the end, she stared a moment at the signature, and then folded the sheet, almost unconsciously, and drew her nail

beyond probability she had thought it; and immediately the great problem rose before

t a time when she had seen much to admire in Harmon himself. Now she did not like to touch the envelope on which he had written her name, and she unreasoningly feared the contact of the sheet it held, as of something that might defile her and must surely hurt her cruelly. The hand

tened her to know how she hated him, and she began to fear the letter itself, lest it should make some great change in her for which she should at las

yond her power to recover. But that would be cowardly, and she was brave. With drawn lips, pale cheeks, and knitted brows she opened it, took out the folded contents, and began to read. As

gan to

have a great many things to write to you, and no particular right to hope that you will read them. Will you? I hope so, for I do not mean to write again until I get an answer to this letter. But if you do

ight stay here for the rest of my life. You are a very good woman, and perhaps you will forgive me for all I have done to hurt

many years,--a great deal more than I like to think of; for the more I think

ow a man feels who drinks, and has got so far that he cannot give it up. How should she? But you know that most men cannot give it up, and that it is a sort of disease, and can be treated scientifically. But I do not

nth or two, and I am quite resigned to that; for the life is quiet here, and I fee

to go back to you, and try to make you happy, and do my best to make up to you for all the harm

e done. You could have got a divorce over and over again, and I believe you could now if you liked. It is pretty easy in some states

e one more chance, Helen, for the sake of old times. You used to like me once, and we were very happy at first. Then--well, it was all my fault, it was every bit of it

for we have plenty of friends and plenty of money, and I will do the rest. I solemnly promise that I will, if you will forgive me and beg

s about it. If it is what I hope it will be, perhaps you will cable a few words, even one word. 'Forgiven' is

ery repetition. Then the fight began, and it was long and bit

his intention was concerned, but she could not cut his life in two and leave out of the question the man he had been, in order to receive without fea

d tell that. And Harmon himself wrote that most men could not give it up, that it was a disease, and that no woman could understand it. W

would have been different. But she could not. Why had he married her? For her beauty. The shame

ld have forgiven much. Old memories, suddenly touched, are always more tender than we have tho

she understood. She had married him because he seemed to love her very much, and the thought of being so loved was pleasant. She had soon found out what such l

at things he was praying forgiveness? Yet when he was sober he had generally remembered what he had done when he had been drunk. That is to say, he h

closed hand. He meant it, and it was an appeal for mercy. She hated herself for having laughed so cruelly a moment earlier. There was a cry in the words, quite dif

was really an easy matter, as Colonel Wimpole had said. It was in her power, and she had free will. He knew that she had a choice, and that she could either take him back, now that he was cured, or make it utterly out of the question for him to approach her. He said as much, when he implored her to give him one more chance 'before

tter before him, as before the best friend she had in the world, and ask him how she should act

he open door, waiting for her answer. She checked hersel

. He could not change his mind now that what he feared for her was taking place. How could he? He would use every argument in his power, and he would find many good ones, against her returning to her husband. He could influence her against her free will, and far more than he could guess, because she loved him secretly as much as he loved her. It was bitter not to see him, and tell him

h an odd look in his eyes, and he began to talk to her about Sylvia

king for the simplest thing. "I want to be married, and