with you if you give us a good dinner, which of
course you will. It will be, of course, a treat
for a poor fellow like me to see all your state
and glory. Give my respects to the charming
Mrs. Tillotson.

“Yours,
“W. Ross.”

She had hoped he would not come. Even in
this note she saw a secret earnest of some
outburst. It was indeed certain that the lights, the
flowers, the gold and silver, and all the choice
evidences of their prosperity, would only inflame
him; and she could not bear to think that that
kind, good, gentle heart who worshipped her
should receive the least mortification in public
above all.

She came to him again. “I want some one
else asked to our party,” she said; and the
devout face was put close to his.

A delighted smile came into his face.
“Now this is what I like,” he said; “fill the
table; don’t ask me about it. Who is your friend,
if you will tell me—a female confidential
friend?”

She hesitated a moment. “It is Mr. Grainger,”
she said. “I am afraid that, unless he is
there, Ross may——”

The delight fled from his face in a moment.
“What does this mean?” Suddenly he checked
himself, and said, coldly, “To be sure; ask
whom you please—any one you like. Grainger,
by all means.”

It flashed on her then for the first time
what was in his mind. “Dear husband,” she
said (and what always seemed to him the
“divine look of earnestness” came into her face),
“surely you know what we spoke of so lately,
and that we agreed upon that one course. This
Grainger can be useful to us. I know how
much I owe to you, dearest, for all your deep
love and true and faithful affection, which, as I
stand here and speak, I would die to find some
way of requiting.

Into Mr. Tillotson’s pale face came back the
old enthusiasm. “You are an angel,” he said;
“above my wretched earthy nature by a million
of degrees. I feel ashamed at this moment.
Yes, we shall have this Grainger, Ross’s friend,
and make him welcome. I am the old stupid
short-sighted being I always was, and always
shall be!”

The letter was sent, and Grainger wrote
to say he would come. Still a weight hung
upon Mr. Tillotson, and which he could not
put away from him, although he was one
of those men who tried to reason, and
sometimes successfully, with their feelings and
prejudices. In this mood he went, one afternoon,
after his banking was done, to see his
friend the captain, whose life had been flowing
on pleasantly in his old occupations, busy with
his tools, the lamp, and furniture repairs.
He found him in the flowered dressing-gown
and spectacles, busy with his favourite work,
honing his “rayshors”—giving them a sweet
edge—an operation he was always delighted
to perform for a friend, and performed with
surprising skill.

“My dear Tillotson,” he said, “delighted at
this visit. Sit down and let me see you. You
find me all in a mess here. Tom must always
have something to fiddle with, like a sixty-year-
old child. And how is she, that elegant creature
your wife? You may be proud of her. I
declare, last Sunday, I never saw a finer
woman in my life. Never.”

Mr. Tillotson looked at him with a sad
interest. “None of our poor tongues could do
justice to her. She is miles above us—and—
above me; and that—that thought, my dear
captain, is making me wretched.”

“My goodness!” said the captain, stopping
his stropping in wonder. “Ah! Folly, my dear
boy.”

Mr. Tillotson shook his head sadly. “No
folly; none in the world. She is superior to us
all, and must know it. What business had I
to think of her, or one like her? Beings like
her must have something they can love, and that
can return their love. Not an old worn, beaten
heart like mine. I do not blame her; but I
ought to have known it myself. It was cruel
to her.”

The captain’s jaw fell. “Eh?” he said.
Then it all came upon him, and with that
grave voice and good sense which was common
to him, he laid his hand on his friend’s sleeve.
“My dear fellow, now don’t. This is all
hippishness, neither more nor less. You’ve got
as fine a woman as a man could wish for—a
woman that loves you, as I know. After a
time you can’t expect them, the creatures, to be
all showing it every hour in the day, with affection
and kisses, and that sort of thing. It’s
out of reason and nature. They have the
house, and the dinners, and the cooks, and a
hundred things to look after; and if she
had a little liking for her old playfellow
that she was brought up with, sure,
Tillotson, don’t we all do much the same, and
have gone after fifty different girls, one with
another, without minding what became of the
last? Why, if she hadn’t a little touch for her
old flame, she wouldn’t be the fine creature she
is. Just think of that, my boy. Why, I
declare,” he added, with the deepest sympathy,
“when I think of all they have to go through,
the creatures, and with bringing children into
the world, and nursing them through, and
bringing them up, why, they make strong men
ashamed of themselves.”

Mr. Tillotson was struck with this earnestness.
“My dear captain,” he said, “you are
right. I behave like a child at times, and feel
like a child. I have been very happy; too much
so for one like me; and yet, I don’t know how,
a weight has come on me latterly, and a sense of
presentiment that something is impending—that
some of that old misery will turn up, and that
all will be snatched from me, and that I have
no business to be so blessed as I am. It is
absurd, but I cannot shut it out.”

“Ah, my dear fellow, megrims every one of