Robert Campbell's home-coming was after the fashion Isabel had supposed it would be. On the eighth of November, Jepson received a telegram from him before nine in the morning, ordering fires to be kept burning brightly all day in his rooms. At eleven there was another telegram, directing Jepson to have the ferns and plants in the hall renewed, and flowers in vases put in the parlor and Mrs. Campbell's dressing-room. At two o'clock Jepson's message contained the information that Mr. and Mrs. Campbell would be at the Caledonian Railway Station at half-past three o'clock, and they would expect the carriage there for them.

So when Theodora arrived at Traquair House, she was met by Jepson with obsequious attentions, the door was wide open to receive her, and the rooms were shining and glowing with light and warmth and beauty. Thus far, all her expectations were realized, but she missed the human welcome which ought to have vitalized its material symbols. Robert was evidently annoyed at the absence of his mother and sisters, and he asked sharply after them.

"They went to their rooms after lunch, sir, before I had time to inform them of the train you specified," Jepson answered.

Campbell seemed glad of so reasonable an excuse, and, turning to Theodora, said: "You must have a cup of tea, dear, and then rest for a couple of hours. I dare say we shall see no one before dinner. I suppose dinner is at seven, Jepson?"

"Yes, sir. Seven o'clock exactly, sir."

After her cup of tea Theodora went through their rooms with her husband and was charmed with everything that had been done for her comfort. "Robert," she said, "there is nothing wanting in these rooms. Everything I could desire is here, except the smile and the kind words of welcome to them from your family."

"Those will come later, my sweet Dora. The Scotch are slow and undemonstrative. My mother and sisters always retire to their rooms after lunch, and it is extremely difficult for them to break a habit. That is their way."

"If habits are kind and good, it is a very good way—in its way. But do you not think, Robert, that a little spontaneity is sometimes a refreshing and comforting thing?"

"It may be, but our temperaments are not spontaneous. Now, try and sleep before you dress. I will come for you at two minutes before seven. Be sure you are ready! Mother waits for no one, not even myself."

But in spite of all the thoughtful care which her husband had taken for her comfort, Theodora was invaded by a feeling of melancholy. Her heart sank fathoms deep, and she could not follow his advice to sleep. She felt chilled and depressed by the atmosphere she was breathing—an atmosphere impregnated with the personalities of people inimical to her. Being conscious of this hostility, she began to reason about it, a thing in itself unwise; for happiness should never be analyzed.

Very soon she became aware of the futility of her thoughts. "They lead me to no certain end, for I am reasoning from premises unknown to me," she said to herself. "I have heard of these three women, but I have not seen them. I will wait until we look at each other face to face."

Then she called her maid, a fresh, honest-hearted girl from the Westmoreland fells, whom she had hired in Kendal. "Ducie," she said, "have you been in the kitchen yet?"

"Oh yes, ma'am. They are a queer lot there. Only one old man had a good word for any of the family. They were asking me if you knew that the Crawfords of Campbelton had been occupying your rooms for two weeks. 'Plenty of hurrying and scurrying,' they said, 'to get them away and put the rooms in order, and the old lady beside herself with anger, at Mr. Campbell not giving a longer notice of his coming.'"

"Mr. Campbell gave plenty of time, if the rooms had not been occupied."

"And, if you please, ma'am, the trunks sent here from Kendal just after your marriage have all been opened, and I may say, ma'am—ransacked. Every thing in them is pell-mell, and the dresses not folded straight, and the neckwear and such like, topsy-turvy. And, ma'am, your beautiful ermine furs have been worn, for they are soiled; other things look likewise. I don't know what to make of such ways, I'm sure."

To this information Theodora listened in dismay and anger. It seemed to her such an incredible outrage on decency, honor, and even honesty. She rose instantly and went to look at her trunks. Ducie had made a very moderate complaint. It was only necessary to lift the lids to convince herself that the accusation was a just one. For a moment or two she stood looking at the disarranged garments; her face flushed, she locked her fingers together, and was speechless. Then she sat down to consider the circumstance, and her lovely face had on it an expression half-pleading and half-defiant. It was the face of a woman you could hurt, but could not move.

In half-an-hour she called Ducie. "Do not touch the four trunks that were sent here from Kendal," she said. "Open the one we had with us, and take from it my steel-blue silk costume, and my set of pearls."

"Will you wear the silk waist, ma'am?"

"No, the lace waist of the same color. And, Ducie, keep silence concerning all you see and hear in these rooms. I know you will do so, but it does no harm to remind you, for you are not used to living among a crowd of servants, and might fall into some trap set for you. Just remember, Ducie, that every word you say will likely be repeated, for we are in a strange country and in a way among strangers."

"I know, ma'am. New relations are not like old ones. The old ones feel comfortable like old clothes; the new ones, like new clothes, need a deal of taking in and letting out to make them fit."

"That is so, Ducie. I am a little annoyed about the open trunks, but—but, I must dress now, or I will be late."

"I wouldn't be annoyed, ma'am, for brooding over annoyances just hatches more; and I will have little to say to any one. You may trust me. I will be as good as my word."

Theodora dressed carefully, and when Robert came for her he was charmed with the quiet beauty of her costume. "It is just right, Dora," he said, "perhaps the pearls are a little too much."

"Oh no, Robert. The dress requires them. They are like moonlight on it, and make each other lovelier."

"Come, then, we have not a moment to lose. It will strike seven immediately."

They entered the dining-room as it struck the hour. Mrs. Traquair Campbell had taken her seat at the foot of the table, and Robert with his bride on his arm walked to her side and said:

"Mother, this is Theodora. I hope you will give her your love and welcome."

Mrs. Campbell did not rise, but, looking into Theodora's face, asked: "Had you a pleasant journey? Are you tired? Railroads are fatiguing kind of travel."

That was all. She did not say one kind word of welcome, nor did she offer her hand. In fact, she had lifted the carving knife as they entered the room, and she kept it in her grasp. Then Robert took her to his sisters, and as Isabel sat on one side of the table, and Christina on the other, the introduction had to be made three times. In each case it was about the same, for the girls copied both their mother's attitude and her words.

But all were frank and friendly with Robert, asking him many questions about the places they had visited, and as he invariably referred some part of these queries to Theodora, she was drawn unavoidably into the conversation. Very soon the desire to conquer these women by the force and magnetism of love came into her heart, and she smiled into their dark, cold faces, and discoursed with such charming grace and social sympathy, that the frost presently began to thaw, and Isabel found herself asking the unwelcome bride all kinds of questions about their travel, and saying at last with a sigh: "How much I should have liked to have been with you!"

"I am sorry you were not with us," answered Theodora, "but we shall go again to the Mediterranean—for we only got glimpses of places and things, and must know them better. We shall go again, shall we not, Robert?"

Then Robert denied all his promises and said: "I fear not, for a long time. Business must be attended to."

"I am glad you are regaining your senses, Robert," said his mother. "Your business has been dreadfully neglected for more than half-a-year."

"It has taken no harm, mother, and I shall double my attention now."

"I hope you will—but I doubt it."

"Dora," said Christina, "may I call you Dora?"

"Dora, certainly," interrupted Mrs. Traquair Campbell. "Theodora is too long a name for conversation. Do you wish any more ice? Do you, Isabel?"

Theodora was confounded by such rude and positive ignoring. The question had been addressed to her, and referred to her Christian name—the most personal of all belongings. Yet it had been peremptorily decided for her without any regard to her right or wish. Her cheeks flushed hotly, and she looked at her husband. Surely he would spare her the distressing position of denying her mother-in-law's decision, or affirming her own. But Robert Campbell was as one that heard not. His eyes were upon his plate, and he was embarrassed even in the simple act of eating. At that moment she had almost a contempt for him. But seeing that he did not intend to interfere, she smiled at Christina, and said:

"You will call me Dora, I suppose, as you are bid to do so, and when I feel like it, I shall answer to that name. When I do not feel disposed to answer to Dora, I shall be silent. That is, you know, my privilege." She spoke with a smile and charming manner, and then, looking at her husband, rose from the table. Robert sauntered after her, making some remark about tea to his mother as he passed her.

She could not answer him. This leave-taking, unauthorized by her example, stupefied the elder woman. "Do you see, Isabel," she cried, "what I shall have to endure?"

"Dinner was really finished, mother."

"That makes no difference! No one has a right to leave the table until I rise. I consider Dora's behavior a piece of impertinence."

"I do not think she intended it to be impertinent."

"Her intention makes no difference. No one has a right to leave my table until I set the example. And if Dora's behavior was not impertinent, then it was stupid ignorance, and I shall instruct her in the decencies of respectable life. And I tell you both to remember that her name is Dora. I will have no Theodoras here. Fancy people going about the house calling 'The-o-do-ra.' Ridiculous!"

"Well, mother, I ask leave to say that I should not like any one without my permission to call me Bell, nor do I believe Christina would care to be called Kirsty. And I really think Robert's wife wished to be agreeable, and even friendly, if we had encouraged her. Why not give her a fair trial? I think she could teach Christina and myself many things."

"I think you are bewitched as well as your brother. I never knew you, Isabel, to make any exceptions to my opinions—or to see me insulted without feeling a proper indignation with me."

"Oh, dear mother, you are mistaken! The day will never come when your daughter Isabel will not stand shoulder to shoulder with you."

"I am sure of that. I wish Christina had not asked such an obtrusive question. I had to answer it as I did, in order to show that woman that we—in our own home here—would call her just what we preferred to call her, without let or hindrance; yet I wish that Christina had kept her foolish question for a little longer. I was hardly ready for active opposition. It is premature. Christina always interferes at the wrong moment." So Christina, snubbed and blamed for her malapropos question, subsided into sullen indifference externally, while inwardly passing on the blame for her correction to Theodora, who, she decided, was going to be unlucky to her.

In the meantime Robert had walked with his wife to the parlor door of their own apartments, but he did not enter with her. "I am going to leave you half-an-hour, Dora," he said. "I wish to smoke a cigar in the library."

"I should like to go with you, Robert, as I have always done. I enjoy good tobacco."

"Walking on some lovely balcony, overlooking the Mediterranean, it was pleasant; but here it is not the thing. If you went with me, I might have the whole family, as the library, like the dining-room, is common ground. Circumstances alter cases, Dora. You know that, my dear! I will return in half-an-hour."

She had a slight struggle with herself to answer pleasantly, but that free and loving thing, the human soul, was in Theodora's case under kind but positive control, so she replied with a smile:

"As you wish, dear Robert—yet I shall miss you."

She was alone in her splendid rooms, and her heart fell. The day had been a hard one. From the moment they left Kendal, Robert had been disagreeably silent. He knew that he was going home to a struggle with his family, and he dreaded the experience. Had it been a struggle with business difficulties he would have risen bravely to its demands. A dispute with women irritated him. In his thoughts he called it "trivial." But had he known all that such a dispute generally involves, he would have sought out for it the most portentous and distracting word in all the languages of earth.

So Theodora left to herself sat down with a sinking heart. The change in her husband's temper troubled her; the total absence of all human welcome to her new home troubled her still more. The occupation of her rooms by strangers, the rifling of her trunks, the half-quarrelsome dinner, the despotic changing of her name might be—as compared with death, accident, or ruin—"trivial" troubles, but she was poignantly wounded in her feelings by them. And their crowning grief was one she hardly dared to remember—her husband's failure to defend the name he had so often passionately sworn he loved better than all other names. True, she had permitted him to call her Dora, but that was a secret, sacred, pet name, to be used between themselves, and by that very understanding denied to all others.

She could not but admit to herself that she was bitterly disappointed in her home-coming. She had thought Robert's mother and sisters would meet her on the threshold with kisses and words of welcome. She had yet to learn the paucity of kisses and tender words in a Scotch household. The fact is general, but the causes for this familiar repression are various, and may be either good or evil. Theodora felt them in her case to be altogether unkind. What could she do about it? There was the perilous luxury of complaint to her husband and there was her father's lifelong advice: "Shut up a trouble in your heart, and you will soon sing over it." Which course should she take? She was waiting for a true instinct, a clear, lawful perception, when Robert entered the room.

She looked up with a smile that brought him swiftly to her side, and when he spoke kindly, all her fearing discontent slipped away. Very soon their conversation turned naturally to their apartments. Robert was proud of them, not so much for the money lavished on their adornment, as for the taste he thought himself to have shown. Going here and there in them, he happened to find, on a beautiful cabinet, an old curl paper and a couple of bent hairpins.

"Look here, Dora," he said, and his voice was so full of displeasure, that she rose hastily and went to him.

"What kind of maid have you hired? She ought to know better than to leave these things in your parlor."

"And you ought to know better, Robert," was the indignant answer, "than to suppose these things belong to me. Do I ever put my hair in newspaper twists? Do I ever fasten it with dirty, rusty, wire pins like these?"

"Then tell Ducie to keep her pins and curl papers in her own room."

"They are not Ducie's. She would not put such dreadful things in her pretty hair."

"How do they come here, then?"

"I suppose the people who have been occupying these rooms left them."

"No one has occupied these rooms since they were redecorated and refurnished."

"You are mistaken, Robert. They have been fully occupied for the last three weeks."

"Dora, what are you saying?"

"The truth! Call any of your servants, and they will tell you so."

Without further words he rang the bell, and Ducie appeared. "Ducie," he asked, "who told you there had been people staying in these rooms?"

"The kitchen, sir; that is, the men and women in the kitchen. I was taken all aback, for my lady had told me——"

"Do you know who the people were?"

"Mrs. and Miss Crawford, Mrs. Laird and her granddaughter, Miss Greenhill."

"Oh, they were relations, Dora," he said in a voice which indicated they had a right there, and that he was neither grieved nor astonished at their invasion of his apartments.

"If you please, sir," interposed Ducie, "my lady's trunks were all opened by Mrs. Crawford and the rest. It gave me such a turn!"

"The rest? Who do you mean?"

"Miss Crawford, Mrs. Laird, and Miss Greenhill."

"Then give the ladies their proper names."

"Yes, sir, Mrs. and Miss Crawford, Mrs. Laird, and Miss Greenhill have opened and ransacked all the four trunks belonging to my lady, which were sent on here directly after her marriage. She had given me the keys of them, and when I saw them open it fairly took my breath away. I am afraid many things are destroyed, and some things that cost no end of money stolen. Not liking to be blamed for the same, I wish the matter looked into."

"Stolen! You should be careful how you use such a word."

"Sir, excuse me, but people who open locked trunks, and use and destroy what is not theirs are just as likely as not to carry off what they want. My character is in danger, sir. I wish the trunks examined."

"I suppose you have been through them."

"No, indeed, sir. When my lady went to her dinner, I called in one of the kitchen girls. I wanted a witness that I had never touched them."

"How dare you make such charges, then?"

"Ask my lady."

"Dora, is there any truth in this girl's words?"

"I fear she speaks too truly, Robert. I have only looked cursorily through one trunk, but I found much fine clothing spoiled, and I fear some jewelry gone. The ruby and sapphire ring given me by my college history class as a wedding gift is not in the jewel case it was packed in, and my turquoise necklace was scattered among my neckwear. It ought to have been in the jewel box."

"Perhaps you forgot in the hurry of packing where you put it."

"I was not hurried. Those four trunks were all leisurely and carefully packed, and the day we left Kendal for Paris——"

"You mean our wedding-day?"

"Yes."

"Then why do you avoid saying so!"

"I do not, but on that same day these four trunks were forwarded here. If you remember, I only took one trunk on our—wedding journey. I supposed these four would be quite safe in this house. But look here, Robert," she continued, lifting a set of valuable ermine furs, "these were given me by Mrs. Priestley. They were of the most exquisite purity, but they look now as if they had been dipped in a light solution of Indian ink."

"The Glasgow rain," he answered carelessly. "Ducie, I do not think we shall blame you."

"Sir, I will take no blame, either about things spoiled, or stolen."

"There is no question of theft. If the ladies using these rooms for a day or two——"

"For three weeks, sir."

"Used also some clothing found in the rooms——"

"Not found, sir, I beg pardon, but locked trunks were opened for them, which the men in the kitchen say is clear burglary—perhaps wishing to frighten me, sir. But this way, or that way, sir, things have been ruined that cost no end of money, and when I saw my lady's spoiled gowns and furs, and broken jewelry, they fairly took my breath away! Yes, sir, they did."

"You may go now, Ducie."

"I cannot and will not be blamed, sir, and I want that fact clear."

"You may go, now. I have told you that once before. If I have to tell you again, you can leave the house altogether."

"Ducie," said Theodora, "I wish you would look after clean linen for the beds and dressing tables."

"What is the matter with the linen, Dora?"

"It is not clean. It looks as if it had been used for two or three weeks."

"Are you sure?"

"Look at it! I can do without many things, Robert, but I cannot do without clean linen."

"Of course not! It is awfully provoking. I tried so hard to have everything spotlessly clean and comfortable, but——" He turned away with an air of angry disappointment.

Dora went to his side and praised again all he had done. She said she would forget all that was spoiled, or broken, or stolen for his sake, and for sweet love's sake, and she emphasized all her tender words with kisses and endearing names.

And she found, as many women find, that the more she renounced her just displeasure and chagrin the harder it was to conciliate her husband's. Whether he enjoyed Dora's efforts to comfort him, or was really of that childish temper which gets more and more injured, as it is more and more consoled, it was at this stage of her married life impossible for Theodora to decide. However, in a little while he condescended to forgive Theodora for the annoyances others had caused him, and said: "It is later than I thought it. We have forgotten tea."

"I do not want any."

"I am going to speak to mother. Shall I send you a cup?"

"No, thank you. Do not stop long, Robert."

She went to the window and looked out into the dreary night. A heavy rain was falling, and not a star was visible in that muffled atmosphere. Sorrowful feelings pervaded all her thoughts, and she asked her soul eagerly for some password out of the tangle of small trials, which like brambles made her path difficult and painful. For the circumstances in which she so suddenly found herself, confounded and troubled her. Had Robert deceived her? Had she been deceived in Robert?

It was, however, a consciousness of having fallen below herself, which hurt her worst of all. She had made concessions, where concession was wrong; she had made apologies for her husband, whereas he ought to have made them to her.

"I have been weak," she whispered to her Inner Woman, and that truthful monitor replied:

"To be weak is to be wicked."

"I have resigned my just rights and my just anger."

"And so have encouraged others to be unjust and unkind, and to sin against you."

"And I have gained nothing by my cowardly self-sacrifice."

"Nothing but humiliation and suffering, which you deserve."

"What can I do?"

"Retrace your first wrong step, in order to take your first right step."

Ere this mental catechism was finished, Ducie entered the rooms with her arms full of clean linen, and Theodora said: "I see you have got the linen, Ducie. Make up my bed first."

"Got it! Yes, ma'am, after a fight for it. The chambermaid was willing enough, but madame held the keys, and madame said the beds had been changed four days ago, and she would not have them changed but once a week. I refused to go away, and the girl went back to her, and was ordered to leave the room. Then I went, and told her that whether she was willing or unwilling I had to have clean linen, as the beds had been stripped, and Mr. Campbell wanted to go to sleep, and Mrs. Campbell had a headache. Then she flew into a passion, and I do not think I durst have stayed in her presence longer, but Mr. Campbell was heard coming, so she flung the keys to one of the young ladies, and told her to 'see to it.' Then I had a fresh fight for pillow-cases, and covers for the dressing tables, and I was told to remember that I would get no more linen for a week. 'Fresh linen once a week is the rule in this house,' the young lady said, 'and no rules will be broken for Mrs. Robert. You can tell her Miss Campbell said so.'"

"Well, Ducie, we must look out for ourselves. I will buy linen to-morrow, and then we can change every day in the week, if we want to."

Robert had been requested not to stay long, but his interview with his mother proved to be both long and stormy. The old lady had felt the irritation of the dinner table, and though she herself was wholly to blame for its quarrelsome atmosphere, she was not influenced by a truth she chose to ignore. Ever since dinner she had been talking to her daughters of Theodora, and her smouldering dislike was now a flaming one. The application for clean linen had made her furious, and she was scolding about it when Robert entered the room. But he knew before he opened the door of his mother's parlor what he had to meet, and the dormant demon of his own temper roused itself for the encounter. He went into her presence with a face like a thundercloud, and asked angrily:

"Why did you let any one—I say any one—into my rooms, mother? I think their occupancy without my permission a scandalous piece of business."

"Keep your temper, Robert Campbell, for your wife. She will need it, I warrant."

"Answer my question, if you please!"

"Well, then, if it is scandalous to entertain your kindred, it would have been much more scandalous to have turned them out of the house."

"Kindred! It is a far cry to call kindred with that Crawford and Laird crowd. I will not have them here! Take notice of that."

"They will come here when they come to Glasgow."

"Then I shall turn them out."

"Then I shall go out with them."

"My rooms——"

"Preserve us! No harm has been done to your rooms."

"They have been defiled in every way—old curl papers, dirty hairpins, stains on the carpets and covers. I burn with shame when I think of my wife seeing their vulgar remains."

"Your wife? Your wife, indeed! She is——"

"I don't want your opinion of my wife."

"You born idiot! What do you want?"

"I want you to write to the women who opened my wife's trunks, and ruined her clothing, and stole her jewelry, or I——"

"Don't you dare to throw 'or' at me. I can say 'or' as big as you. What before earth and heaven are you saying!"

"That my rooms have been entered, my wife's trunks broken open——"

"You have said that once already! I had the Dalkeiths in my spare rooms. Was I to turn the Crawfords and the Lairds on to the sidewalk because your rooms had been refurnished for Dora Newton?"

"Campbell is my wife's name."

"I thank God your kindred had the first use of your rooms! You ought to be glad of the circumstance. And pray, what harm is there in opening a bride's trunks?"

"Only burglary."

"Don't be a tenfold fool. A bride's costumes are always examined by her women kin and friends. My trunks were all opened by the Campbells before your father brought me home. Every Scotch bride expects it, and if you have married a poor, silly English girl, who knows nothing of the ways and manners of your native country, I am not to blame."

"Let me tell you——"

"Let me finish, sir. I wish to say there was nothing in Dora Newton's trunks worth looking at—home-made gowns, and the like."

"Yet two of them have been worn and ruined."

"Jean Crawford and Bell Greenhill wore them a few times. They wanted to go to the theatre or somewhere, and had not brought evening gowns with them. I told them to wear some of Dora's things. Why not? She is in the family now, more's the pity."

"They had no right to touch them."

"I'm sure I wish they had not worn them. Jean and Bell are stylish-looking girls in their own gowns. Dora's made them look dowdy and common. I was fairly sorry for them."

"Which of them wore Theodora's ring? That ring must come back—must, I say. Understand me, mother, it must come back."

"If it is lost——"

"It will be a case for the police—sure as death!"

The oath frightened her. "You have lost your senses, Robert," she cried; "you are fairly bewitched. And oh, what a miserable woman I am! Both my lads!" and she covered her face with her handkerchief, and began to sigh and sob bitterly.

Then Isabel went to her mother's side, and as she did so said with scornful anger:

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Robert Campbell. You have nearly broken your mother's heart by your disgraceful marriage. Can you not make Dora behave decently, and not turn the old home and our poor simple lives upside down, with all she requires?"

"Isabel, do you think it was right to put people in the rooms I had spent so much time and money in furnishing?"

"Quite right, seeing the people were our own kindred. It was not right to spend all the time and money you spent on those rooms for a stranger. You ought to be glad some of your own family got a little pleasure in them first of all."

"They did not know how to use them. Both the Crawfords and Lairds are vulgar, common, and uneducated women. They know nothing of the decencies of life."

"That may be true, but they are mother's kin, and blood is thicker than water. The Crawfords and Lairds are blood-kin; Dora is only water."

"Theodora is my wife. I see that mother will no longer listen to me. Try and convince her that I am in earnest. My rooms are my rooms, and no one comes into them unless they are invited by Theodora or myself. My wife's clothing and ornaments of all kinds belong to my wife, and not to the whole family. Write to Jean Crawford, and Bell Greenhill, and tell them to return all they have taken, or I shall make them do so."

"I suppose, Robert, they have only borrowed whatever they have. They often borrow my rings and brooches and even my dresses."

"Isabel, when people borrow even a ring, without the knowledge and consent of the owner, the law calls it stealing; and the person who has so borrowed it, the law calls a thief. I hope you understand me."

He was leaving the room when his mother sobbed out: "Oh, Robert, Robert!"

For a moment he hesitated; then he went to her side and asked: "What is it you wish, mother?"

"I did not mean—to hurt you—I was brought up so different. I thought it would be all right—with you—that you, at least—would understand. I expected you knew—all about the marriage customs—you are Scotch. Oh, dear, dear! My poor heart—will break!"

He touched her hand kindly and answered: "Well, do not cry, mother, I will say no more about it. Good-night."

"Good (sob) night (sob), Robert!"

But as soon as the door closed, the furious woman flung down her handkerchief in a rage, saying in low, passionate tones: "You see, girls! When you can't reason with a man, can't touch his brain, you may try crying about him, for perhaps he has something he calls a heart."

Returning to his own apartments Robert found that the lights had been lowered and that Theodora was apparently asleep. He stood looking at her a few minutes, but decided not to awaken her. She would, he thought, want to know all that had been said and he was tired of the subject. His mother's tears had washed all color and vitality out of it. She believed herself to be right and from her point of view he admitted she was. He told himself that Theodora did not comprehend the wonderful complexity of the Scotch character—he must try and teach her. And as for her destroyed, or lost adornments, they could be replaced. Of course money would be, as it were, lost in such replacement, but it would be a good lesson, and lessons of all kinds take money. Thus, by a new road, he had come back to the usual Campbell appreciation of the Campbells, for though he was keenly alive to the individual defects of that large family he was at the same time conscious of their superiority to the rest of the world.

In the morning he began to give Theodora the lesson he had himself absorbed. He told her that it was some of their own relatives who had occupied the rooms, and then explained the wonderful strength of the family tie in Scotch families. "I think," he added, "that under the circumstances, mother did the only possible thing."

"And the opening of my trunks, Robert dear, and the use of my clothing, is that also a result of the Scotch family tie?"

"Yes-s," he answered with easy composure, "they looked on you as one of us and supposed you would gladly loan what they needed. Isabel says they often borrow her brooches and rings and gowns. Moreover, mother informed me, that it is the common custom to open a bride's trunks, and examine her belongings."

"A very rude and barbarous custom, I think, Robert, and it makes no excuse for an infringement of manifest courtesy and kindness. And I am sure that every one can forgive an injury, easier than an infringement of their rights."

"You must try and look at the matter reasonably, dear Dora."

"You mean unreasonably, Robert, but if you do not care, why should I?" Robert made no reply, but went on examining his fingernails, apparently without noticing the look of pained surprise in his wife's eyes, nor yet the far deeper sign of distress—that dumb lip-biting which indicates an intensity of outraged feeling.

This was Theodora's first lesson in the complexities of the Scotch character, and it was a dear one. It cost her many illusions, many hopes, and some secret tears. And the gain was doubtful. Nature knows how to profit from every shower of rain, every glint of sunshine, every drop of dew; but which of us ever learn from any past experience, how to prepare a future that will give us what we desire?

During the night she had plumbed the depths of depression, but in a short deep morning sleep, she had found the strength to possess her soul, not in patience, but in a sweet, firm resistance. She would accept cheerfully the lot she had chosen, for to bear dumbly and passively the many petty wrongs which ill-temper and dislike must bring her would only tempt those who hated her to a continuance and enlargement of their sin. Every one, even her husband, would despise her, and she suddenly remembered how God, when He would reason with Job, bid him rise from his dunghill, stand upon his feet, and answer Him like a man. So, she would submit to no injustice, nor suffer without contradiction any lying accusation, yet her weapons of defence should be kind and clean, and her victory won by love and truth and honor—for in this way she herself would rise by

The prospect of such a victory made her heart swell with a noble joy, for thus she would be creating her spiritual self, and so being God-like be also loved of God.

Her first effort was to compel herself to go to the breakfast table. She wished to have Ducie bring her a cup of coffee and a couple of rolls to her room, but that would only be shirking the inevitable. So she went to the family table smiling, and almost radiant in a pretty pink gown, and beautiful white muslin neckwear. Her manner was cheerful and conciliatory, but it utterly failed, because the old lady believed it to be the result of orders from her son. She was sure Robert had seen the reasonableness of her conduct, and told Theodora to accept the circumstances as unavoidable, and perhaps even excusable.

So in spite of her smiles and efforts at conversation, the meal was silent and unhappy and towards the end really distressing. It had begun with oatmeal porridge served on large dinner plates, and she had accepted her share without remark, though unable to eat it. But later, when a dish of boiled salt herring appeared, its peculiar odor made her so sick that it was with painful difficulty she sat through the meal. Robert noticed her white face and general air of distress, and slightly hurried his own meal in consequence.

"Are you ill, Dora?" he asked, when she fell nauseated and limp among the sofa cushions.

"It was the smell of the salt fish, Robert. I could not conquer it."

"But you must try. We have boiled salt herring every morning. I do not remember a breakfast without them."

"Then, dear Robert, I must have a cup of coffee in my dressing-room."

"You might learn to bear the smell."

"The ordeal would be too wasteful of life."

"I don't see——"

"No one can afford a disagreeable breakfast, Robert. It spoils the whole day. And I might waste weeks and months trying to like the odor of boiled salt herring, and never succeed—it is sickening to me."

"It does not make me sick. I have had a boiled salt herring to breakfast ever since I was seven years old."

"You have learned to bear them."

"I like them."

"Did you like them at first?"

"No, but I was made to eat them until at last I learned to relish them. Mother believed them to be good for me. Now, I do not think my breakfast perfect without a boiled salt herring."

"We can force nature to take, and even enjoy poisons like whiskey and opium, but I think such an education sinful and unclean."

"Dora, you are too fastidious."

"No, because a wronged body means something to a sensitive soul."

"If you look at such a small thing in a light so important, you had better take your breakfast alone. Good-morning!"