It was four weeks before Theodora could leave her room, and for long afterwards she was an invalid. But in her sickness she had peace, and the solacing company of her friends, Mrs. Robertson and Mrs. Oliphant; and as the winter passed her health and strength and beauty returned to her. This renewed vitality was indeed so certain that the announcement of the Easter services contained a promise that Mrs. Campbell would sing some suitable solo.

At the breakfast table on Easter Sunday, Robert Campbell spoke of this event to his family.

"Theodora will sing at this morning's service, mother," he said.

"The minister has already made fuss enough about the circumstance. There is no necessity for you to go over the news."

"I think you had better not go to church this morning."

"I assure you I intend to go—for your sake. And am I to be denied the comfort of my Easter sermon, because of a song which I shall not listen to?"

"Please yourself. This time you have been warned."

"I shall do my duty, that always pleases me. And I need no warnings. I am not a creature made of nerves and fancies. I am afraid of no woman."

"Christina, as you are so fond of music, Theodora will take you with her to the organ-loft if you wish."

"O, brother, how happy I shall be!"

"Christina Campbell, you will sit decently in our own pew with your sister and myself."

"Poor Christina!" said Robert, and he laid his hand kindly on her shoulder as he passed.

"Poor Robert! Say that, and you say the truth," answered Mrs. Campbell.

It was a glorious day, the church and even the aisles were crowded and the doctor preached the finest sermon of his long pastorate. His tall, stately form, his piercing eyes, his thin face—austere but tender—were never so immediate and so solemnly authoritative, and every heart thrilled as in a grand resonant voice he cried:

"Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the firstfruits of them that slept."

His preaching was usually logical, invasive, not to be forgotten, but this morning all he said was vitalized by his own lively, living faith. He had caught the very spirit of Paul, and was carried by it far beyond, and above all arguments and sequences, until his glowing climax could find no grander words than:

"Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the firstfruits of them that slept."

To these words he emphatically closed the Testament, and there were a few moments of profound, sensitive silence. Then, like a lark mounting heaven-ward, Theodora burst into the triumphant melody:

"I know that my Redeemer liveth!"

It was an angelic "Amen" to that old sanguine assurance, which possesses so immovably the heart of humanity. The ecstasy of hope, the surety of faith, the glory of man's destiny filled with unspeakable joy the whole building, and many of the reverent souls in it had momentary experience of

For the singer had filled every note of the immortal music with her own beautiful, happy soul, and the congregation—old and young—went to their homes loving her.

Robert's heart burned within him, for while sharing the enthusiasm of the crowd he had also his personal delight in the knowledge that this dear, clever woman was his wife, and that she loved him. He went to the foot of the gallery stairs and waited there for her. He clasped her hand and looked into her face with beaming eyes as the elders and deacons gathered round her with eloquent thanks, and all the way home he forgot every one but Theodora.

A few days after Easter Sunday, Robert came home earlier than usual, but he entered his wife's presence with such a pleasant countenance, that she rose smiling and went to meet him.

"I have come to tell you something I hope will please you, Dora," he said. "Mr. Oliphant has taken a furnished villa at Inverkip, and there is another to let a few hundred yards distant. Inverkip is so near Glasgow, I could run down to you frequently—always on Friday or Saturday until Monday. What do you say, if I take the vacant villa?"

"O, Robert, I should be delighted!"

"Then I will hire it for the season, and you can have your piano and books and what other things you wish easily shipped there. Consult Mrs. Oliphant, she will advise you just what to do."

"Dear Robert, you make me more happy than I can tell."

"And the Oliphants will be delighted you are going to be near them. There may be some nice families there, and it is not unlikely Dr. Robertson will be of the number."

All came to pass like a wish, and early in April Theodora was comfortably settled at Inverkip, and the Oliphants and Dr. Robertson soon followed her. Inverkip was hardly a fashionable summer resort, but it was pleasant and secluded, and also beautifully situated—facing Inellen, and the slopes of Cowal, with a fine background of mountains.

After a winter in dark, wet, bitter Glasgow, the country in April was like Paradise. Robert went down with her one lovely Friday, Ducie and two other servants, with such furniture and ornaments as they thought necessary, having preceded them nearly a week. So the villa was in comparative order and a perfect little dinner awaited them. Theodora experienced a child's enchantment; her simple, eager surprise, her deep sense of the wonder and beauty of the brooding spring, and her delightful expression of it, went to Robert's heart. For her tender eyes were laughing with boundless good humor, her lips parted as if forced to speak by the inner fulness of her happy heart, and he saw in her

"There is even a taste of green things in the air, Robert," she said; "and look at the trees! They are misty with buds and plumes, and tufts and tassels; and the larches and pines are whispering like a thousand girls. O, it is heavenly! And listen to the waters running and leaping down the mountains! It is a tongue of life in the lonely places," and as she passed the open piano, she stood still, touched a few notes, and sang in a captivating, simple manner:

Then Robert stayed her simple song, saying: "Let us go and walk in the garden while I smoke my cigar." And she went gladly, and they walked and talked together until the soft gray afternoon was verging to purple and red on the horizon.

That night her heart was too full of hope and sweet content to let her sleep. She had not been as happy for many months. She had not been as hopeful. She told herself this detached life was all that was required to secure Robert's affection, and that six months of it would make him impatient of any intrusion into the sacredness of his home. And she was full of sweet, innocent plans to increase and settle certainly and firmly the treasure of his love. They kept her waking, so she rose long before morning, and, opening a casement, looked out into the dusky night full of stars. She sat there, watching Nature in those ineffable moments when she is dreaming, until the cold white light of the dawning showed her the waning moon blue in the west.

The next day Robert went fishing, and Theodora put in order the china, crystal, and fine damask, and the books and ornaments she had brought down to Inverkip. Robert praised what she had done, vowing she would make the best of housekeepers; and the evening and the next day were altogether full of love and sweet content.

Then Robert went back to Glasgow and business, and Mr. and Mrs. Oliphant and Dr. Robertson's family arrived. The young wife visited and helped her friends, and they spent long, pleasant evenings at each other's houses. Theodora said to herself: "Things are not going as badly with me as I thought, and I wonder if we ever know if bad is bad, or good is good."

Many happy weeks followed this initial one and Theodora was grateful for every pleasant hour, for she was facing the trial and the glory of maternity and she wished her child's prenatal influences to be favorable on every side. The social life of Inverkip could not in its present conditions be called fashionable, and that was a good thing, for few women can go into fashionable society without catching its fashionable insanity, whatever it may be at the time. Theodora spent many quiet, delightful hours with her friends the Oliphants and Robertsons, but her chief pleasure she took from the hand of Nature.

Every fine day she was up among the great hills, and it is a bad heart that is not purified by walking on them. She was passionately fond of birds, and had the power to attract them to her. Morning and evening she fed at her dining-room window

They crowded the sweet briar bush that grew beside the window, and praised and thanked her in the sweetest songs mortal ever heard. The blue cushat's "croodle" and its mournful love monologue moved her to sympathetic tears. She was sure the pretty faithful creature had a forgetful, or unkind mate. The swallows cradling themselves in the air, and chattering so amiably; the tiny wren's quick, short song; the fond and faithful bullfinch couples; the honest, respectable thrushes; the pilfering blackbirds; the nightingale's solemn music in the night; the lark's velvety, supple, indefatigable song in the early morning—these, and many more of the winged voices of the firmament, she understood; but to the humble, poorly-clad lark, she gave an ardent affection. To her it was a bird of heaven, living on love and light, singing for half-an-hour without a second's pause, rising vertically a thousand yards as she sang, without losing a note, and sending earthward exquisite waterfalls of song.

In this sane and peaceful life, month after month went onward delightfully, while she waited in the fulness of health and hope for the child which God would give her. During these months Robert also had been happy. Now and then there had been invasions of the lower man, but in the main he was joyous and amiable, thoughtful for her comfort, and delighted to share all her hopes and pleasures. He had insisted on his mother and sisters going to the Bridge of Allan for the summer months, had given Jepson and Mrs. McNab holiday, and practically closed the Glasgow house until September. And he had found Inverkip so pleasant, that he was even more with Theodora than his promise demanded.

One day near the end of July Mrs. McNab came to Inverkip and called on Theodora, who was delighted to see her. In a few minutes she began to take off her bonnet and shawl. "I hae been thinking things o'er," she said, "and I hae made up my mind to stay wi' you the next four weeks—for there's nane that I can see about this house fit to take my place—a wheen lilting lasses, tee-heeing and giggling as if life was a dance-hall."

"They are nice, good girls, McNab."

"They may be, but they are flighty and nervous, and they hae no experience. I am going to take care o' you and the house mysel'. When you are sick——"

"McNab, I am in splendid health."

"That's a' right. Splendid health you have, and splendid health you will require, and some one to keep people out o' the house that arena wanted near it. I am not going awa', so you needna speak the word. Is your ain mother coming to you?"

"She cannot. They will have to move next month."

"Weel, then, you arena to be fretted wi' any other mother, and it will take an extraordinar' woman—like mysel'—to be all you want, and to fend off all you don't want. I am gey fond o' newborn babies—poor wee things, shipwrecked on a cold, bad world—and if there isna some sensible kind-hearted body wi' your bairn, they will be trying their auld world tricks wi' it. I shall stay here and see the bonnie wee thing isna left to their mercy."

"What do you mean? You frighten me, McNab."

"I mean, that if the bairn is left to any auld-farrant nurse, she will wash it in whiskey as soon as it comes into the world, and there is nae doubt in my mind, that the spirit isna pleasant to the tender skin o' the poor wean."

"Oh, McNab! what a dreadful custom!"

"Weel, it is an auld, auld custom, and though some are giving it up, there are mair that stick to it. If Mrs. Traquair Campbell should be here, I'm feared the whiskey bottle would be gey close to the washbowl. And you wouldna like it."

"I would not permit it."

"How would you help it? Tell me that. The only time you managed that woman you had to nearly die to do it, and I'm not clear that you got the better o' her then."

"She will not be here, McNab. She will not be asked."

McNab snapped her fingers. "'Asked,' is it? She will walk into this house as if it was her ain. 'It is my son's house,' she will say, and then she'll proceed to use her son's house as if the de'il had sent her to destroy everything that belongs to other folk; and day and night she'll make quarrelling and misery. That's Mrs. Traquair Campbell's way, and the hale o' her brood is like her."

"Now, McNab, you know Mr. Robert Campbell is very different. You must not speak ill of my husband."

"No, ma'am. There's two Robert Campbells. Ane o' them is weel worth the love you're giving him; the other is like the auld man that tormented the Saints themsel's. He'll get kicked out some day, nae doubt o' it."

"Mr. Campbell told me he had given you a holiday until the first of September. He spoke very well of you."

"I have had mair holiday than I want now."

"Where were you?"

"I was in Edinburgh, seeing the world and the ways o' it."

"What did you think of the world and its ways?"

"I dinna think them fit to talk about. I'll go now, and give things a bit sort up. I'll warrant them requiring the same."

So McNab got—or rather took—her way, and soon after appeared in the kitchen in her large white mutch and apron. "Now, lasses," she said in her most commanding manner, "I am come here on a special invite to keep you and the house in order during the tribulation o' the mistress. But you'll find me a pleasant body to live wi', if you behave yoursel's and let the lads alane. If you don't, you will find you have got to do wi' the Mischief."

"The lads, ma'am?" said a smart young lassie; "the lads! We have not a particle o' use for them—auld or young."

"What's your name?"

"Maggie."

"Weel, Maggie, you are a sensible lass, and you may now make Mistress McNab—that's mysel'—a cup o' tea, and if there's a slice o' cold beef or a bit o' meat pie in the house——"

"There's neither meat nor pie in the house."

"Then, Maggie, gie me a rizzard haddie wi' my tea. I'm easy pleased except wi' dinner. A good dinner is a fixed fact wi' me, and when I've had a cup o' tea I'll feel mair like Flora McNab. At the present hour, I'm fagged and wastered, and requiring a refreshment. That's sure!"

At first Theodora did not feel satisfied with McNab's gratuitous offer of service, but Robert quickly made her so. "I am delighted," he said. "I have known the woman ever since I can remember. She stood by my father in his long sickness as faithfully as she stands by you. I can never be uneasy about my wife if McNab is with her."

So McNab took the place she had chosen, and the house was soon aware of her presence. There were more economy, better meals, perfect discipline, and a refreshing sense of peace and order. For she had a rare power of ruling, and also of making those ruled pleased to be so. Thus, for two weeks, Theodora had a sense of pause and rest that was strengthening both to the inner and outer woman. Then in the secret silence of the midnight, her fear was turned into joy, for McNab laid her first-born son in her arms and Robert knelt at her side, his heart brimming with love and thanksgiving. And had he fully realized the blessing given, he would have known it was, Thy Kingdom come, from the cradle.

Surely this great event would make all things new! This was Theodora's constant thought and hope, and for a while it seemed to do so. But the readiness with which we come to accept rare and great blessings as customary is one of the most common and ungrateful of our blasphemies against the Father from whom all blessings flow. And very soon the beautiful babe became as usual as the other everyday incidents of life, to all excepting his mother and McNab. Robert, indeed, was fond and proud of him, and as long as they remained in Inverkip the little fellow was something new that belonged to himself in a manner wonderful and satisfying.

But with the return of the family to Glasgow, the child lost the charm of the Inverkip environment. In Traquair House he received even from his father only the Campbell affection, which had no enthusiasms, no baby talk, no petting, no foolish admirations. It was almost impossible for the mother to accept this change of attitude with nonchalance, or even cheerfulness. She could not withstand the influence of the dull, gray house, and the toiling, moiling, money-grabbing city, though she felt intuitively that the influence of both was inimical to her domestic happiness. For the house was impregnated with the Campbell personality, so much so that the very apparatus of their daily life had become eloquent of the moods of those they ministered to; and Theodora often felt as if the sofas and chairs in their rooms resented her use of them.

A prepossession of this kind was an unhappy one, and easily affiliated itself with the spirit of the house, which was markedly a quarrelsome spirit. Nurtured and indulged for more than two generations, it had become an inflexible, almost an invincible one. All Theodora's smiling efforts, all her charms and entreaties had failed to conciliate, or even appease its grudging resentment. It was a piteous thing that the first trouble after her return to Glasgow, should be concerning the child. Robert had been pleased by the assurance of his friends in Inverkip that his son resembled him in an extraordinary manner. He was himself sure of this resemblance, though Theodora could only see "that difference in sameness" often enough pronounced between fathers and sons.

Mrs. Campbell scouted the idea. She said: "The child had not a single Campbell feature or trait. He did not even suck his tongue, a trick all the Campbell babies had, as McNab knew right well. And she understood there had not been a single Campbell in the room when he was born—an important and significant mistake that never could be rectified. She could only say, and she always would say, that the boy was Theodora's child."

"I hope he is," answered Robert, who was nettled by the criticism. "He cannot do better than take after his mother in every way."

"And I am fairly shocked, Robert," she continued, "that the child—who's ever it is—hasna yet been baptized. Seven weeks old and not baptized! I never heard the like. My children were covenanted Christians before they were two weeks old. It was my first thought for them."

"Well, mother, we wanted to be quite sure of the name. A boy's name means much to him when he becomes a man."

"There is but one name proper for the child, that is his grandfather's."

"Do you mean Traquair?" asked Robert.

"Yes, Traquair—a fine family name."

Theodora looked entreatingly at Robert, and he understood her dissent and shared it.

"Mother," he answered, "I have a great objection to Traquair."

"Objection! Pray, why?"

"It was not a fortunate name for my father. It is not a good business name."

"My father was a Traquair, and he made a great deal of money."

"Your father was called Donald Traquair. That is different. Traquair is a good family name, but it is not a good Christian name."

"We could call him Donald," said Theodora. "Donald is a good name, though I think Robert likes David best of all."

"David!" ejaculated Mrs. Campbell with anger. "I will have no David Campbells in this house! I will not suffer my grandson to be called David. It was like you to propose it."

"I thought it would please you. I am quite willing my son should be called David."

"I think David is a very good name," said Robert, but his opinion was given with that over-decision which cowardice assumes when it forces itself to assertion.

"To have a David Campbell in the house will be a great annoyance to me," continued Mrs. Campbell. "It will be enough to make me hate the child."

Then Theodora left the room. She felt that the argument had gone as far as it was likely to be reasonable. In a short time Robert followed her and his face wore a look of vexation and perplexity.

"Have you decided on the name yet, Robert?" she asked.

"No."

"Why not call him after yourself?"

"Because in the course of time I should likely be compelled to write 'senior' after my own name. I do not care to look forward to that. Mother has set her mind on Traquair."

"It is the only Scotch name I object to. It has not one noble association. If you say Robert, you think of Robert Bruce, and Robert Burns, and a score of other great men. Call him Donald, or Dugald, or Duncan, or Angus, or Hector, or Alexander, they are all Christian names and will not subject the little lad when he goes among the boys and men, to mockery. Traquair will give them two objectionable nicknames—Tray, which is a dog's name, and Quair will easily slip into queer. Think of it—Tray Campbell, or Queer Campbell. It will not do, Robert."

"No. Traquair will not do. It will not do."

"There is one good reason for not calling the child Robert, not the 'senior' reason at all. I want you to keep and make famous your own name. You are really a good natural orator. I noticed your speech, and its delivery at Dr. Robertson's dinner, when we were at Inverkip. It was the best speech made. It was finely delivered. You are rich and going to be richer; why not cultivate your gift, and run for Parliament? No one can put political views into a more sensible and eloquent speech than Robert Campbell."

"I think you overrate my abilities, Dora," replied Robert, but he spoke with a kind of musing satisfaction.

"No, you could become a good speaker, and if you wish, I am sure you may write M. P. after your name. Why not decide on David? You love your big brother yet. You never speak of him without emotion. He will come back to you, I am sure. And how proud you will be to say: 'I never forgot you, David. I called my first-born son after you.'"

"You are right, Dora, you are right. The boy's name is David. I have said it and it shall be so. Mother must give way. She must remember for once, that we have some feelings and prejudices as well as herself."

At that moment Ducie entered with the child, and Theodora took him in her arms and said: "Ducie, the baby is to be called David." Then she kissed the name on his lips and he opened his blue eyes and smiled at her.

The next Sabbath the child was solemnly baptized David, and Robert entered his name in the large family Bible, which had been the first purchase he made for his home after Theodora had accepted him.

But in neither ceremony did Mrs. Traquair Campbell take any part. She did not go to church, and when Robert asked her to come into his parlor and see the entry of her grandson's name in the Book, she refused. All of the household were present but the infant's grandmother and aunts; and all blessed the child as Theodora put him a moment into the arms of the women present. McNab kissed him, and made a kind of apology for the act, saying she "never could help kissing a boy baby, since she was a baby hersel', and even if it were a girl baby a bit bonnie, she whiles fell easy into the same infirmity."

In this case Theodora gained her desire, and some will say she gained it by flattering her husband. It would be fairer to say by admiring her husband. A wise wife knows that in domestic diplomacies, admiration is a puissant weapon. In a great many cases it is better than love. Men are not always in the mood to be loved, their minds may be busy with things naturally antagonistic to love; and to show a warmth that is not shared is a grave mistake. But all men are responsive to admiration. It succeeds where reasoning and arguing and endearments fail. For the person admired feels that he is believed in, and trusted. He has nothing to explain and nothing to justify, and this attitude makes the wheels of the household run smoothly.

Is then Theodora to be blamed? If so, there are an unaccountable number of women, yesterday, to-day, and forever, in the same fault. It would be safe to say there is not a happy household in the land where the wives and mothers do not use many such small hypocrisies. Is there any wife reading this sentence, who has not often made a pleasant evening for her whole family, by a few admiring or sympathizing words? For though a woman will go through hard work and distracting events without praise or sympathy, a man cannot. If admiration and kindness fail him, he flies to the black door of oblivion by drink, or drugs, or a pistol shot. A man with a wife whose sympathy and admiration can be relied on, is never guilty of that sin. Is there a good wife living who has not pretended interest in subjects she really cares nothing about; who has not listened to the same stories a hundred times, and laughed every time; who does not in some way or other, violate her own likes or dislikes, tastes or opinions every day in the week in order to induce a household atmosphere which it will be pleasant to live in?

This is not the place to discuss the ethics of this universal custom. Women, with reckless waste have always flung themselves into the domestic gulf. They choose to throw away their own happiness in order to make others happy, forgetting too often that they who injure themselves shall not be counted innocent.