story.

"Yes, he was a Spaniard living in Mexico. He came to that country when he was about eighteen, from northern Spain. There was much that was fine about him, but his too impossible ideals led him into difficulties. After the baby's birth he absented himself from home very often to plot with others against the government. Perhaps he was right, perhaps wrong; I do not know. He wrote flaming articles which, in many cases, were published outside of Mexico. He helped to lay underhand schemes for the overthrow of the authorities then in power. These things did not bring him much in the way of money, but he had pupils, English or Americans, who wished to learn the pure Castilian rather than the cruder speech frequently spoken in Mexico. So we managed to get along. He would come home moody, depressed, or in a rage against those whom he called his enemies, yet always he was devoted to me and the child, only that smouldering fire of jealousy, that lack of faith, that unworthy suspicion was ready to burst into flame at a moment's provocation. I could never mention a return to England without bringing forth a tirade. I was tired of him. He could bring me no happiness. I wanted a lover of my own people, he would declare. He was a doting, mistaken imbecile to think I could continue to be true to him. Then he would regret his wild words, say that he would turn his attention to making more money, would give up his intriguing friends, and we would send for my mother and we would all be happy together. There came another baby, a little girl. Such darling children they were." Mrs. Bertram paused. Her eyes had a faraway look, and her knitting lay untouched upon her lap. Nancy, absorbed and excited, did not dare to interrupt by asking where these children were at the present time, although she longed to know.

Presently Mrs. Bertram took up her needles again. "My little girl was two years old," she went on, "when a message came that my mother was dangerously ill, and probably could not live long. She begged me to come to her. Could I do so? The message was sent by the young curate who was devoted to her. My husband was away. I made every effort to reach him but without avail. I had but little money, yet I felt I must go at all hazards. My precious, patient mother! Nothing at that moment seemed so important as the granting of her wish. I calculated that I could make the trip, spend a little time with her and return within six weeks or two months at the furthest. I hesitated about leaving the children, but they had a faithful, devoted nurse, and I knew that my husband would be inconsolable if I took them with me, so, hard as it was, I made up my mind to leave them. I 

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