"Boys, I've gone so far; I may as well finish; and you'll see I'm
not without some cause for my stern looks and ways; you'll pity me,
and from you I'll take the comfort of it. It's only the old
story,--I married her, worked for her, lived for her, and kept my
little girl like a lady. I should have known that I was too old, too
sober, for a young thing like that; the life she led before the
pinch came just suited her. She liked to be admired, to dress and
dance and make herself pretty for all the world to see; not to keep
house for a quiet man like me. Idleness wasn't good for her, it bred
discontent; then some of her old friends, who'd left her in her
trouble, found her out when better times came round, and tried to
get her back again. I was away all day, I didn't know how things
were going, and she wasn't open with me, afraid, she said; I was so
grave, and hated theatres so. She got courage, finally, to tell me
that she wasn't happy; that she wanted to dance again, and asked me
if she mightn't. I'd rather have had her ask me to put her in a
fire, for I _did_ hate theatres, and was bred to; others think
they're no harm. I do; and knew it was a bad life for a girl like
mine. It pampers vanity, and vanity is the Devil's help with such;
so I said No, kindly at first, sharp and stern when she kept on
teasing. That roused her spirit. 'I will go!' she said, one day.
'Not while you're my wife,' I answered back; and neither said any
more, but she gave me a look I didn't think she could, and I
resolved to take her away from temptation before worse came of it.
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