never shuffled, nor lied, nor truckled, who was
only a sayer of good things, but not a claimant
of them; who did not heap all his official
preferment on himself; and did not even
put his son into the church. Shut up the
book; it is a malicious libel on the Whigs.

I suspect, after all, it is a mere reversal of
somebody else's career. Instead of an honest,
true, open, independent, gallant gentleman of
the name of Sydney Smith, it is perhaps the
topsy-turvied record of a grovelling, grasping
turncoat of another name. Instead of wit
and brightness, put down dinginess and
stolidity; instead of earnest determination
to make the best of the ills of life, of poverty,
and neglect, and wilful misrepresentation, put
down a grasping after everything to be got, a
craving for wealth and station, adulation to
a lord, insolence to a curate; and instead of
Foston-le-Clay, and even Combe Florey, and
a canonry at St. Paul's—hey!—Room there
for my lord the bishop!

              A WIFE'S STORY.

  IN SEVEN CHAPTERS.    CHAPTER II.

So I stood that night—a wild, weird night—
leaning against my husband with folded arms;
loving to measure my insignificance; to be
at his side, not much more than reaching to
his elbow, yet as high as his heart,—to look
up into the handsome face so far above me
when held erect, so often stooped down
tenderly to mine. And I mused, over the
bitter things of my past life, imagined the
happiness to come for both of us, the
happiness of hours, days, years, and a whole
life spent together; never knowing end of
love, nor weariness of existence. And I felt
peace, and knew rest—for a little while—
standing secure in the certainty of
possession.

We were on our way to Scotland.

The wind blew round us; sometimes driving
the waves so violently against the ship's
side that the foam splashed up in my face, and
driving the clouds recklessly and violently
across the wild sky, and the pale struggling
moon. And we were rocked up and down,
yet standing firm together, the wind and the
sea singing us an inspiriting song, a loud
soul-thrilling anthem; but too loud and too
shrill for an epithalamium.

The other passengers had disappeared one
by one,—we were alone. I could have
remained there for ever, I thought, so supported,
so serenaded. Breaking into the world of my
imaginings came my husband's voice.

"Annie, darling, it is getting cold! What
a rough night it is!" And as he spoke, the
strong encircling arm drew my wrappings
closer; he went on, "You must not stay
here any longer, love; you had better go
below, and get a few hours' sleep, for it is
long past midnight. I shall get a cigar, and
walk up and down a little; I am quite chilly,
and I am sure you must be."

No, I was not; and I did not want to go
down, out of the wind and the foam-splash
into the close atmosphere of the ladies' cabin.
I, leaning there, against his heart, had not
thought of being cold.

"Get your cigar, if you must have one,
Harold, but let me stay, please," I pleaded.
"I am not cold at all, and I know I shall not
sleep down there, it will be so warm."

But a drizzly rain began to fall; of course,
staying out all night would have been a most
irrational proceeding, and my husband was
very wisely decided. He took me
downstairs, guiding my feet carefully in the
uncertain light from the lamp at the bottom, and
left me at the door of the den, as I called the
crowded sleeping-place. Already I had seen,
or fancied that he would expect from me,
only an implicit and child-like obedience. As
yet I had found it very sweet to obey, where
to obey had only been to do what was most
pleasant; tonight I was inclined to rebel; it
was so stiflingly close and warm down there,
"might I not go up again?" But Harold
pressed a "Good-night," on my lips,
pressing me the while to his heart, and my
impatience vanished, and I obeyed.

I lay a long time, rocked on my uncomfortable
couch, with my eyes obstinately wide
open, listening to the firm, rather heavy,
footstep pacing to and fro above me. At last I
suppose, I fell asleep listening, and then the
step crushed painfully into my heart and
brain, and I awoke in trouble and affright.
It was new to me to be on the sea, it was
awful, the waves rushed so fiercely past the
little window against which I lay! I could
but dimly see, yet I heard and felt them;
they stirred, not fear, but a wild, half-pleasant
excitement within me.

I listened again to the steps above; I felt
half-jealous that without me he found
pleasure in lingering there so long. At last I
heard the sound no longer; "He is going to
sleep now," I thought, so I voluntarily closed
my eyes, pillowed my cheek on my arm, and
composed myself for quiet slumber.

When we touched land next day, all was
wrapped in a mist-mantle; we could see
nothing, but we went on by land to our first
resting-place,—reaching it in the evening.
On the morrow I saw the sun shine upon one
of the most lovely places in the Highlands,—
lovely and grand at once, and more beautiful
than I could bear.

Harold had thought to surprise me,—
thought I should admire it,—was very glad
it was fine weather. I had never till now
seen anything of mountainous, or even hilly
scenery; the pretty country round Ilton was
the most beautiful feature of Nature's face
I had ever grown acquainted with.

Now, I stood by the side of the loch in
the morning—the early morning—I looked
down towards the sea; up to the splendid
peak above peak of mountains piled up as
far as I could discern; across the wide,