Nansie wrote to her uncle before she went to bed, informing him that she was married, and thanking him for the kind letter he had sent her. She said nothing as to the offer of a home, because she did not consider that it held good. Nansie single and Nansie married could not bear the same relation in her uncle's eyes. Single, she needed a protector; married, she possessed one. The responsibility of affairs lay with her husband; all that it was in her power to do was to wait and see what steps he took towards providing for their home. She could encourage and strengthen him, but for the present that was all. To attempt so early to assume the direction of affairs would have been an affront to her husband's manhood, and as, out of loyalty to Kingsley, she purposely avoided the contemplation of this contingency, she had no idea what steps it would be advisable for her to take in the event of Kingsley's failure.

On the following morning she told Kingsley that she had written to her uncle, and asked him if he would like to read the letter before it was posted. Kingsley replied that as she must have written about him he would prefer not to see it.

"I have written everything that is good about you," she said.

"That is the reason," said Kingsley. "My dear, I trust you implicitly, and I am satisfied that you have said exactly what is right--with one exception. You have spoken too highly of your husband. Don't shake your head, I know it. You have an exaggerated opinion of me, or, to phrase it better, you have formed an ideal which will not bear the test of sober truth. But that, dear little wife, is the fate of most ideals."

"What you say," observed Nansie, "will apply with equal truth to your opinion of me."

"Not at all," said Kingsley, with fond seriousness, "you stand away and apart from me--higher, nobler, more capable. I will not listen to any contradiction, my dear, when I am discussing you. The fact is, I have already applied the test."

"In what way, Kingsley?" asked Nansie.

She was learning that it was best to humor him in certain moods, which it seemed impossible for him to avoid.

"In this. Of course, when I first saw you I formed my ideal of you. What it was, I think you know to some small extent, for the love I feel and express for you is no idle sentiment. Whatever else I may be, I am at least as true as steel to you. It is one virtue I may fairly claim, for nothing which is inspired by you can be anything else. Well, knowing you but slightly, my ideal was formed, and familiar association would either destroy or establish it. My dear, I have questioned myself, I have asked: 'Does Nansie come up to your ideal? Is she the true woman you supposed her to be? Does she represent what you believed--the sweetness, the purity, the nobility, the tenderness which have sanctified the very name of woman?' The answer is: 'She is all, and more than all, you believed her to be. There is nothing in her that is not sweet, and true, and good. The ideal you set up falls short of the reality.' Then, on the other hand, is the question of Me. I do not wish to disturb you, my dear, but I fear a terrible disappointment awaits you when you have found me out. No, I will not allow you to answer me. You may stand up in my defence when I am not present, but my imperfections are too apparent--now that I am brought face to face with them--to encourage any attempt to smooth them away. However, we are bound to each other for better or worse, and you must make the best of me. Now address your letter to your uncle, and I will post it for you."

"Shall I give him your love, Kingsley?" asked Nansie, adding hurriedly, "you are very unjust to yourself."

"Yes, dear, give him my love, and say that I hope to make his acquaintance one day. As to being unjust to myself, I know I am the best judge of that."

He went from the room, and in a few minutes presented himself again, gloved and polished, a faithful presentment of a young English gentleman.

"You must wish me luck, Nansie," he said. "I am going to see what can be done in the way of obtaining a situation. Perhaps something fortunate will turn up."

She kissed him and watched him from the street door walking along the street, looking brightly this way and that for something to turn up. He returned at six o'clock in the evening, in time for dinner. There was a jaded expression on his face, which vanished the moment his eyes rested on Nansie.

"Home, sweet home," he said, passing his arm round her waist, and drinking in her beauty with a grateful spirit.

She knew that he had not been successful in his quest, but nevertheless she asked what fortune he had met with.

"None at all," he replied; "but Rome wasn't built in a day. We must have patience. I will tell you after dinner what I have done."

They had the pleasantest of meals, enlivened by his gayety; and when the things were cleared away and he had lit his cigar, he said:

"What can a man wish for more? A good dinner, the sweetest of company, a fine cigar--it was right, was it not, Nansie, for me to keep back three hundred of my choicest?"

"Quite right," replied Nansie, "and very thoughtful of you. I love the smell of a good cigar."

"When I put them aside," said Kingsley, holding up a reproving forefinger, "I thought only of myself. I reflected that it might be some time before I could afford to buy more of the same kind."

"Kingsley," said Nansie, pleadingly.

"Yes, dear," he responded.

"I want you to understand something."

"Anything you wish, Nansie. Let me know what it is."

"Only that your disparagement of yourself hurts me, dear. Knowing that there is nothing in the world you would not do for my sake, it is painful to me to think that you may grow into the habit of believing that everything you do is done with a selfish motive. It is not so--indeed, it is not so!"

"How seriously you speak, Nansie!" said Kingsley, drawing her close to him. "Do you really mean to say that I am not selfish?"

"If there is in the world a man who has proved himself otherwise, it is you, my dear," said Nansie, laying her head upon his shoulder. "Be just to yourself, in justification of me."

"That requires elucidation, my dearest," said Kingsley, with great tenderness.

"Think of the sacrifice you have made for me, a poor girl, but for whom you would be now at peace with your parents, and in the enjoyment of much, if not of all, that makes life worth living. How low should I fall in your estimation if I were insensible to that sacrifice, if I were to undervalue it, if I were to say: 'It is what any other man in Kingsley's place would have done!'"

"Is it not?" he asked, passing his hand fondly over her hair.

"No, indeed and indeed it is not. I do not pretend to assert that I know the world as you know it"--there was something whimsical in the expression of unconsciously affected wisdom which stole into Kingsley's face as she uttered these words--"but I know it sufficiently well to be certain that there are few men capable of a sacrifice such as you have made for me. What had I to give in return?"

"Love," he answered.

"It is yours," she said, and tears, in which there was no unhappiness, stole into her eyes, "love as perfect as woman ever gave to man. Not love for to-day, my dearest, but love forever; love which nothing can weaken; love which will triumph over every adversity; love which will be proof against any trial. But that is little."

"It is everything," said Kingsley, "to me and to every man worthy of the name. The sacrifice I have made--you choose to call it so, and I will not contradict you, dear--is to be measured. Not so with love. It is illimitable, unmeasurable. It illumines every surrounding object; it makes the commonest things precious. How beautiful the present is to you and to me! Could it be more beautiful if we were passing it in a palace? That picture on the wall--a common print? No. A lovely possession. The handsomest painting that ever was painted hanging there--would it make the present moments sweeter, would it invest the spiritual bond which unites us with a binding link which now is missing? This book on the table which cost a shilling--if it were a first edition worth thousands of pounds, would it increase our happiness, would it make your love for me and mine for you more perfect and complete? There is an immeasurable distance between what I have gained and what I have lost. So let us have no more talk of sacrifices, Nansie, dear."

She could not find arguments with which to answer him, and it would have been strange if she had needed them.

"In return," he continued, "I will make the strongest endeavor not to underrate myself, nor to prove that I am more than ordinarily selfish. There--my cigar is out."

She lit a match and held it while he puffed away at his weed.

"You promised to tell me what you have done to-day," she said.

"There is very little to tell. I did what I could, which consisted simply of walking about, and looking in shop-windows. I went out without any distinct idea in my mind; I thought that something might happen, and I was disappointed. Everything and everybody seemed to be going along nicely, and not to be in want of me. It occurred to me to consider what I was fit for. I looked into the windows of a boot-shop. What do I know of boots and shoes, except how to put them on my feet? Literally nothing. The same with haberdashers, the same with grocers, the same with jewellers, the same with every kind of shop. Then, trades; I don't know one. Printers, engravers, carpenters, watchmakers, and that kind of thing--you have to serve an apprenticeship before you can hope to earn money by them. I felt like a fish out of water. There seemed to be no groove for me, nothing that I could take hold of. I am really puzzled, Nansie."

"My poor Kingsley!" murmured Nansie.

"But, there," he said, snapping his fingers, "it will not mend matters to worry about them. Nil desperandum, and a fig for the world and its cares! If only to-morrow would not come!"

He certainly had the gift of giving dull care the go-by; and in another minute he was the same light-hearted, pleasant-humored, irresponsible being he had ever been, and was doing his best with his whimsical talk to make Nansie forget the serious position in which they were placed.