2 
-TIME AH® HARVEST 
Eve’s Jealousy. 
She had promised him that she would 
mend the lining of his new overcoat if he 
would wear another and leave that at home. 
And so, as he had left it, she took it from 
the hall and carried it into her sewing room. 
She was Mrs. Wilton, and she had been 
married live years, and never, never in all 
that time had had one unhappy moment. 
Mr. Wilton had been very attentive, very 
kind, and had never made her jealous. She 
often said she was the happiest woman liv¬ 
ing. Now as she looked at the lining, and 
compared the silk with the torn portion, she 
was thinking these thoughts: 
‘•And he is just the dearest, best, truest 
fellow in the world,” said Eve Wilton to 
lierself. “I’m not half good enough for 
liim. I wonder what this is in his pocket-- 
it bulges it all out of shape.” 
She put her hand into the breast pocket 
as she spoke, and drew out a little package, 
wrapped up in silver paper and tied with 
blue ribbon. 
“Something he has bought for me, I ex¬ 
pect,” said Eve. “I wonder what it is. I 
think I won,t open it until he comes home,” 
and then she started to mend the coat. 
“I wonder what it is,” she said. “Tom 
<did mean to get me an opera glass, I know; 
but this is not the shape of the parcel. It 
doesn’t seem like a book. It might be lace 
wound on a card—real lace.” 
She looked at the package again. 
“I do wonder what it is,” said she, and 
finished hemming the patch down. 
“There wasn’t much to mend, after all,” 
she said. “I thought the tear much longer 
How, I do wonder what is in that pack¬ 
age. ” 
Eve put the coat over a chair, and took 
up the parcel. 
“Tom wouldn’t mind,” she said; “I will 
just take a peep; I’m sure it’s for me.” 
Then she undid the ribbon, unfolded the 
paper, and saw letters. 
“Dear Tom,” said she, “he must keep my 
old letters next his heart, and he has never 
told me.” 
The writing was not hers; she saw that. 
“His mother’s letters,” she said, “he 
loved his mother so.’’ 
Then she began to tremble a little, for 
the letters did not begin “My clear son,” 
nor anything like it. She cast her eyes 
over them; they were love letters. 
“Tom has loved some other woman before 
he met me,” she said, beginning to cry. 
“Oh, what shall I do? she cried out. “Oh, 
foolish, foolish creature that I am! Of 
course she died, and he only loves me now. 
It was all before we met. I must not mind 
—” But there she paused, gave a little 
scream, and threw the letter from her as 
though it had been a serpent and had bitten 
her. It was dated the past week. It was 
not four days old. “Oh! oh!” cried Eve. 
“Oh, what shall I do? Tom, my Tom? 
What shall I do? He is false—Tom. Oh, 
I have gone mad! No, there are the letters. 
They are really there. Why do I not die ? 
Do people live though such things as these?” 
Then she knelt on the floor and gathered 
up the letters, and steadily read them 
through. There were ten of them. Such 
love-letters ! No other interpretation could 
be put on them. They were absurd love- 
letters such as are always produced in court 
in cases of breach of promise. And they 
called him “Popsey Wopsey,” and “Dar- 
lingy Parlingy,” and “Lovey Dovey,” and 
“Own Sweetness,” and they were all signed, 
“Your own Nellie.” 
“It is all true,” said poor Eve, wringing 
her hands. “And it is worse than anything 
I ever heard of. I trusted him so. I believed 
in him so. My Tom, my own dear Tom !” 
Then she wiped her eyes and gathered up 
the letters, wrapped the silver paper around 
them, tied the blue ribbon and but them 
back in the awful breast pocket of that 
dreadful overcoat and hung it in the hall. 
“Tom shall never know,” she said. “I 
will never see him again; when he comes 
home I shall be dead. I will not live to 
bear this.” 
Then she sat down to think over the best 
means of suicide. She could hang herself 
to the chandelier with a window-blind cord, 
and then she would be black in the face 
and hideous. She would drown herself, 
but then her body would go floating down 
the river to the sea, and drowned people 
looked even worse than strangled ones .She 
was too much afraid of fire-arms to shoot 
