On my way back—at what dissipated hour I firmly decline to state—I passed a home with an interesting history tacked thereto.

The leading events were brought me by one of those active, inquisitive little birds that find out all sorts of things, and often fetch from great distances.

The couple who live there, though Americans, once lived in Winnipeg, Manitoba, and it was in that place that the husband fell to drinking. The little bird above alluded to—the bird that acts as a kind of domestic ferret—told me that, in the early years of their married life, the wife was of an excitable, hysterical temperament, and given to making scenes. Just here let me digress a moment to erect a warning signboard. I have a friend who is busy mixing and administering a deadly draught to her domestic happiness, and yet does not know it. She has only been married a year, and she uses tears and scenes, in general, as instruments to pull from her husband the attention, affection, and devotion she craves. The tug waxes increasingly hard, but she has not, as yet, sense enough to see that, and desist. She cannot realize that the success attained by such methods is but the temporary and external beauty, which, in reality, covers a failure of the most hopeless type, just as the flush on the consumptive’s cheek is but a pitiable counterfeit, and covers a fatal disease.

Whether in this particular story, the report of the wife’s early blunders be true or false, there seems to be no doubt that presently the husband grew careless and indifferent; that scene followed scene between them, until at last he went to drinking. Then the little wife waxed sober, thoughtful, and studied much within herself. This awful sorrow, following so closely upon the heels of her wedding-day joy, matured her judgment—her womanhood, and she began to use every skillful device to call back her husband from the dark paths he had chosen, to the light. All in vain, however; and when she realized this, after several years of heroic effort, she made one last scene, and told him she was going to leave him. Then his old-time tenderness returned—if you can compare a tenderness which was blurred and cringing, with that which was clear and manly. He begged and promised in vain, however, for she had lost faith, and a lost faith is not found again for many a day.

So she went off, and she covered all traces and signs so carefully that no anxious, heartbroken effort of his could find her. Meanwhile she wrote him frequently and regularly, and although he knew not where to send reply, it is quite likely she had word of him from some one to whom she had given her confidence in this dreary time.

And so five years passed, and at their close she walked into her home one day, and her husband—a man once more, took her in his arms, and looked his love and joy with clear, honest eyes.

They came to our city, or rather this little suburb of our city, soon afterward, and although it is well-nigh ten years now that they have been among us, there has never been a hint of trouble. Hers was a unique method, but it brought about the desired end.

Verily it would seem that for some dinners, it is best for the cook to vanish, and leave the dishes to get themselves.

I was meditating on this as I walked home that night, and the next morning, stirred by the recollection of all I had seen and felt, was moved to write out a story given me by a young man—a friend of mine, who lives at a great distance from here, on an olive ranch out of Los Gatos, California.

I wish I could give you this little tale just as he told it. I can’t, I know, but I’ll do my best in trying.

Mrs. Purblind dropped in just as I was reading it over to myself, before my study fire.

“Do you remember my story about Duke?” I asked.

“Yes, I liked it,” she said, “though I’m not very partial to dogs.”

“I have one here about horses. I’ve written it out as nearly as possible as my friend told it to me, but so much flavor is lost when these things change hands. Here it is, and I think that the lamentation David sang over Saul, might head it.

“A while ago we owned a couple of horses—work horses, and yet, by reason of the strength of their affections, they were lifted from out the commonplace, and enveloped with an atmosphere of romance that gave them the flavor of a story book, plumb full of princes and heroes. And by the way, Prince was the name of one of them, and he was a genuine hero, as you will see. His mate was called Nelly, and albeit she was as awkward and as angular as the ideal old maid, vastly inferior to Prince, who was a fine-looking chap, yet his admiration for her was unbounded. She cared for him, I’m sure, but she was less demonstrative; more coquettish, I would say, if she hadn’t been too homely a beast to think of, in connection with such a word.

“They were brought up together; were taught by the same master; sat on the same bench, in a figurative sense; were lovers from the very first. Prince certainly had the most elegant manners; Nelly was his first thought, at all times, and his courtesy to her savored of the old school. He wouldn’t go into the shed of a cold, rainy day and leave Nelly outside; but if she went in, he was more than content to follow. When it was necessary to separate them—we couldn’t always work them together—we had to tie Prince with ropes and cables, as it were, to hold him fast. Nelly was less difficult to manage; at least, she would let him go out of sight without fretting, and yet, after all, she seemed easier if he were at hand. I remember, one day, he was tied in front of the house, and she was loose, grazing near by. As long as he could see her, all went well enough, but the moment she sauntered around the fence, he began first to fidget, then to paw and neigh, and finally to struggle, until in the end, he broke loose and rushed after his inamorata. And what a time he made over her! whinnying, and demonstrating his delight in a dozen different ways. She? oh, she took it coolly, but that was all feminine bosh, or coquetry on her part. She liked to have him near her well enough.“There was an amusing thing happened one day, down in the field. Father and I were plowing with Nell. We had tied Prince to a tree, the other side of the knoll we were working on, and supposed he was fast, but to our surprise, just as we turned, after finishing a long furrow, we confronted the gentleman, tree and all, standing before us in a weak and fainting condition. He had struggled until he had uprooted the whole business, and was so used up in consequence, that he could hardly stagger, much less go into his usual hysterics over Nell. She looked as amazed as we did, and I’ve no doubt gave him a sound curtain lecture on his folly that night.

“One day father and Ned took Prince down into the field. Steve and I stayed up near the house, working around the vineyard. Nelly was in the stable.

“The morning was half gone, when all at once Steve happened to turn around, and look down the hill.“‘Gosh, Jack!’ he exclaimed, ‘the barn’s afire.’

“I gave one startled look, and then ran for the hose.

“‘Get Nelly out!’ I cried to Steve; but after a second look, I called, ‘No, don’t you do it! Let her go! it’s too late!’

“‘I won’t let her go!’ he shouted; ‘do you think I’ll stand by and see Nelly burned to death!’

“‘You’d be a fool to go in now! Look at that stable! Here! Stand back! Have you lost your wits?’

“‘Let me go!’ he cried; ‘Jack, get out of the way!’

“But I threw him down and held him. I was bigger than he; older, and cooler-headed too.

“‘There, I give in,’ he said in a moment; ‘it’s wicked to lose time this way. Let me up, Jack, and we’ll get the hose. I promise you I won’t go in.’

“We ran for the hose, and turned on all the water we could command, and by this time mother and the servant girl had come from the house, and were helping us.

“We could hear Nelly struggling in her stall, and I tell you it made us sick! Unluckily we had chained her, in anticipation of her trying to get loose, and go after Prince. She’d never been left at home this way before, and we’d taken extra pains to secure her.

“The stable doors were fastened by a heavy bolt; again and again I tried to push it back, but it was so fiery hot I couldn’t touch it, and when I tried to hammer it, the flames drove me off.

“There was nothing for it but to leave poor Nelly to her fate. It seemed as if she divined our intent, for, as we turned away, she uttered a piercing scream. Mother burst into tears.

“‘I can’t stand it,’ she said, covering her ears.

“Again and again Nelly’s voice rang out. Steve stood there, his face drawn and white. All at once he took out his watch.“‘It’s twelve o’clock!’ he cried; ‘father’ll be home in a moment, and if Prince hears Nelly he’ll go mad. Head ’em off, Jack!’

“I didn’t wait for another word, but ran with all my might down the road by which they always came.

“As fate would have it, they had chosen the other one that day, and were well along, before I caught sight of them. Father had taken Prince out of the plow, and harnessed him to a little single-seated gig we had. He was driving him, and Ned was walking behind. I saw Steve running toward them, but he was still at a distance.

“‘Father,’ I yelled at the top of my voice, ‘stop! father! the stable’s on fire. Turn Prince back. Nelly is burning!’

“Father didn’t seem to understand, for although he listened, he kept driving slowly on.

“I shouted again, running toward them, and gesticulating frantically. All at once Ned caught my meaning, and bounding like a deer in front of the gig, grabbed Prince by the head to turn him, but at that very moment a terrible scream from poor Nelly split our ears, and in less time than it takes to tell there was a maddened horse plunging in midair, with four strong men clinging to him, trying to hold him back.

“‘Let him go, boys! Let him go!’ shouted father; ‘it’s no use! Let him go, I tell you! He’ll kill us all!’

“‘Oh, God! I can’t let the old fellow burn up!’ sobbed Steve.

“But Prince had begun to lay about him with his teeth, and father knocked Steve down to get him out of the way.

“I believe we all sobbed, as we watched the old hero go up that hill and into the stable; Nelly was quiet now, and the doors were down.

“We heard him groan once or twice, and then mother came to meet us, and took us all into the house.

“It’s out yonder—the monument we put up. It’s over both of them.”“Well, what has that horse story to do with men?” asked a sneering voice, when I had finished my little tale, and Mrs. Purblind and I were sitting silent.

I turned, and to my astonishment and disgust saw Mrs. Cynic, who had come in quietly, unobserved by me, as I was reading.

I should not have answered her a word, but Mrs. Purblind thought to avert an awkward situation, so she said:

“It illustrates the devotion of the masculine nature, I suppose.”

“In horses? Yes; it’s a pity that it hasn’t been evoluted into men.”

“It has,” I answered curtly, “for those who are capable of seeing and appreciating it.”

This probably made her angry, for she turned on me with her most evil expression:

“It’s a mystery to me why, with your overweening admiration for the other sex, you haven’t married, Miss Leigh. You must have had countless opportunities; child-like faith, such as yours, must be very attractive to them.”

I stared at her a moment in silence; her insolence stupefied me. Then I think I opened the nearest window, and pitched her out. Mrs. Purblind insists I did not do that, exactly, but that I got rid of her. As she hasn’t been in since, a desirable result was obtained, and I don’t much care what the method may have been.

I aired my house the rest of the day, having a wish to cleanse it, and protect my moral nature, much as one would rid a place of sewer gas, to protect the physical being.

I was not in a very good temper after all this, and it annoyed me to see Randolph Chance coming in before taking his train. He had been calling oftener than usual of late, but he didn’t seem to have much to say, and so his coming gave no especial pleasure.

To-day what talk we had ran on flowers for a time, when Mr. Chance, awkwardly and out-of-placedly, asked me how I liked the Reve d’or rose. This was the kind of rose I had received every morning, during my illness.

I looked at him inquiringly. I confess my heart was beating faster.

He flushed, and said abruptly:

“You must have known I sent you those.”

“I did not,” I answered rather coldly; “there was no card or note with them.”

“I thought you’d know,” he said with increasing embarrassment; and then he added, almost desperately, “you must know, Constance, that I love you.”

“I know nothing,” I replied, drawing myself up haughtily; “I take nothing of this kind for granted. If you want me to understand, you must come out openly.”

“I have done enough, surely,” he said, “enough to lead you to guess the truth.”

“I guess nothing of this sort!” I reiterated; “what right have you to place me in this position? What right have you, or any other man to deprive a woman of one of her dearest privileges—that of being wooed?”

“Constance!” he cried, and all his embarrassment was gone, “aren’t there a thousand ways of saying ‘I love you?’ and haven’t I said it in every way but one?”

“That one was the most important of all,” I answered; “I would have given more to hear those words than to receive every other token.”

His face lighted up with a sudden flash, and he started impulsively toward me.

“Then you do love me, my darling—I have hardly dared to hope.”

But I drew back, and answered passionately,

“No, I do not! I love no man who can trifle with a young girl, or any woman—no man who has the effrontery to expect some one to take for granted a courtship that has never existed!”

“For Heaven’s sake, what do you mean?”“Go to Miss Sprig and inquire; she has more reason to take your love for granted than I.”

“I’ll not go to her, but I shall leave you,” he said, with a white face. “You certainly don’t care for me, or you would never deal me such an unjust thrust as this.”

And then I heard him close the front door. I think the neighborhood heard him.

I walked to the window. He was gone.

I told myself I was glad of it—that a good lesson had been taught.

Which of us was teacher remained somewhat obscure.