Elsie went in search of Tom; who was walking up and down the veranda, looking anxious still, but his face cleared when he saw Elsie, like a granite rock lighted up by a sudden flood of sunshine.

"How is she?" he asked.

"Oh, a great deal better; she is going to sleep; that is, if Grant will be sensible enough to leave her alone; you men are dreadfully stupid creatures."

"Yes, dear," replied Tom, meekly.

"Well!" said Elsie; "you might show a little spirit at least."

"I thought I was to agree with you!"

"There is nothing I hate so much; if you don't contradict me, I shall die certainly."

"Then, since you want the truth, I must say I think you are a little hard on men in general."

"And you in particular, perhaps?"

"Sometimes you are."

"Indeed!" said she, tossing her curls. "Very well, Mr. Fuller, if you have such dreadful opinions as that, you had better have nothing more to do with me; I'll go away."

"Oh, don't; I didn't mean it," cried Tom, in a fright.

Elsie laughed at his penitence and teased him more unmercifully than ever, but Tom could bear it now with undisturbed equanimity. She had given him happiness, lifted his soul into such a flood of light as he had never thought to reach in this world, and his state of rapturous content utterly defied description.

They walked up and down the long colonnade, jesting and merry, Tom unable to think or talk of anything long except his new bliss, saying all sorts of absurd things in spite of Elsie's expostulations.

"I shall go in at once, if you don't behave more sensibly," she said, snatching her hand from him, as he tried to kiss it. "What would Grant think if he happened to come down."

"Oh, dear," sighed Tom; "how long before you will let me tell him; this having to steal one's happiness is dreadful."

"Oh, you selfish, insatiable monster! not an hour ago you promised to be perfectly content if I would only say I might care for you sometimes, and there now you go!"

"I am a selfish wretch," said Tom, struck with remorse.

"And selfishness is such a dreadful failing," rejoined Elsie.

"It is, I know it."

"In a man."

"Oh!" exclaimed Tom, a little astonished at the close of her sentence.

"Yes," continued Elsie; "It's a woman's privilege."

"It seems to me," said Tom, eagerly, "that women claim a great many privileges, and very odd ones, sometimes."

"Isn't it our privilege!" demanded Elsie, belligerently. "Do you mean to deny that we haven't a right to be just as selfish and whimsical as we please, and that it's your duty to submit?"

"If you'll let me kiss your hand I'll acknowledge anything you desire," said artful Tom.

"Then I won't, and if you value your peace in the slightest degree, I should advise you to behave more decorously."

Elsie drew herself up, and looked as prim as a little Quakeress, who had never indulged a worldly thought in all her days.

"I wish you would come into the music-room and sing to me," said Tom, struck with a bright idea.

"Nonsense, you don't care about music?"

"Indeed I do; your voice is like an angel's."

"You couldn't tell whether I was singing something from Trovatore or Yankee Doodle?" replied Elsie.

Tom rubbed his forehead again, fairly bewildered; but whether he knew anything about music as a science or not, he listened to Elsie's singing with his heart, and very sweet music it was.

"You shall teach me," he said.

"A hopeless task, Tom! And you really have some voice if you only had any ear."

"Oh," said Tom, putting up his hands, as if taking her words literally.

"Oh," said Elsie, with a shriek, "they prove your race beyond a doubt; don't fear."

Tom laughed, good-natured as ever.

"But come in," he urged; "you will get cold, with nothing on your head."

"You are not to become a Molly," said Elsie.

"I won't," replied Tom, "nor a Betty, nor any other atrocity; only just come in, like a duck."

Elsie allowed herself to be persuaded for once, and they went into the house, seating themselves at the piano in the solitary music-room, enjoying the hour after their own fashion, with no apparent perception of the shadows which lay upon the hearts of the husband and wife in that darkened home.

Some time after Elsie had gone, Mellen returned to his wife's chamber. She lay with one hand partially over her face, but was watching him all the while; there was an eager expression in her eyes, as if she longed to have him go away, but was afraid to express the wish.

"Do you feel sleepy, Bessie?" he asked.

"I think so," she replied; "don't let me keep you shut up here any longer—go down and play chess with Elsie."

"You will come down after you are rested?"

"Oh, certainly; I will be down to tea."

He kissed her and turned to leave the room.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, huskily.

"I have some letters to write; I shall go to the library in order to do it in peace—Elsie is certain not to come there."

"Good-bye," said Elizabeth, speaking with hysterical sharpness, which jarred a little on Mellen's quick ear.