coming through the hall, I took it up again,
and affected to be very busy.

  It was a warm, bright, beautiful day, and
she seemed to bring a burst of sunlight and
happiness with her as she opened the door.
Her own face, too, was radiant, and she
looked like the Alice of the old farm-house,
as she came on tiptoe and bent over my
chair.

"Well, what is it?" I asked, looking up.

  She laid a pretty little bouquet of violets,
tied with blue ribbons, before me.

"I have been to the conservatory, and
have brought you the first flowers of the
season, Francis.  And something else, which,
perhaps, you may not like so well."

  She bent over me as she spoke, and leaning
her hand lightly on my shoulder, kissed me
twice.  She had been chary of her caresses,
for some time; and, when she did this of her
own accord, I wheeled round in my chair,
and looked up at her.

"You seem very happy to-day, Alice."

" It is somebody's birthday,"  she said,
stationing herself upon my knee, and looking
into my eyes.  " And I wish somebody very
many happy returns: "—her voice faltered a
little—" and if there has been any wrong
feeling, Francis, for the last six months, we
will bury it to-day, now and for ever."

  She clung to me in silence, and hid her
face upon my breast.  I was moved, in spite
of myself, and kissed the brown hair that
was scattered over my shoulder, and said I
was quite willing to forget everything (as if
I had anything to forget)! At which she
looked up with a bright smile, and I daresay
thought me very magnanimous.

" And we will make a new beginning from
this day, Francis."

"If you will, my child."

  She caressed me again, after a queer little
fashion of her own, which always made me
smile, and which consisted of a series of
kisses bestowed systematically on different
parts of my face—four, I believe, being allotted
to my forehead, two to each cheek,
two to the chin, four to my lips, and four to
my eyes.  She went through this ceremony
with a painstaking care, and then looked me
in the face.  All her love and tenderness
seemed to come up before me in that moment,
and efface the past and its unhappiness.  I
held her closely to my heart, and her arms
were around my neck.

  Will any one believe it?  My wife had
scarcely left me five moments before the fancy
came to me that I had shown too plainly the
power she had over me.  For months I had
been schooling myself into coldness and indifference,
and at her very first warm kiss or
smile, I was completely routed.  She had
vexed, and thwarted, and annoyed me much
during those months: it would not do to
pardon her so fully and entirely before she
had even asked my forgiveness.  I took a
sudden resolution; and, when she came back
into the room, was buried in my papers once
more.  Poor child!  She had had one half-hour's
sunshine, at least.

" One moment,"  she said, taking the pen
out of my hand, and holding something up
over my head.  " I have a birthday gift for
you.  Do you want it?"

"If you give it to me, certainly."

"Then ask me for it."

  I said nothing, but took up my pen again.
Her countenance fell a little.

"Would you like it?" she said, timidly.

" There was a saint in old times, " I said,
quietly, going on with my papers, " a name-
sake of mine, by the way—Saint Francis of
Sales—who was accustomed to say, that one
should never ask or refuse anything."

" Well!  But I'm not talking to Saint
Francis; I am talking to you.  Will you
have my little gift?  Say yes—just to please
me—just to make my happy day still
happier."

"Don't be a child, Alice."

" It is childish, I know; but indulge me
this once.  It is such a little thing, and it
will make me very happy."

" I shall not refuse whatever you choose to
give me.  Only don't delay me long, for I
want to go on with these papers."

  The next moment she threw the toy (a
pretty little bronze inkstand made like a
Cupid, with his quiver full of pens)  at my
feet, and turned away, grieved and angry.
I stooped to pick up the figure—it was broken
in two.

  " Oh, you can condescend to lift it from
the ground! " she said sarcastically.

  " Upon my word, Alice, you are the most
unreasonable of beings.  However, the little
god of love can be easily mended."

  "Yes."

  She placed the fragments one upon the
other and looked at me.

  " It can be mended, but the accident must
leave its trace, like all others.  Oh, Francis!"
she added, throwing herself down by my
chair, and lifting my hand to her lips.  " Why
do you try me so?  Do you really love me?"

  " Alice, " I said, impatiently, "do get up.
You tire me."

  She rose and turned very pale.

" I will go then.  But first answer my
question.  Do you love me, Francis?"

  I felt anger and obstinacy in my heart —
nothing else.  Was she threatening me?

" Did you love me when you married me,
Francis?"

  "I did. But — "

  "But you do not love me now?"

"Since you will have it,"  I said.

"Go on!"

"I do not love you— not as you mean."

  There was a dead silence in the room as
the lying words left my lips, and she grew
so white, and gave me such a look of anguish
that I repented of my cruelty, and forgot my
anger.