`What a splendid creature she is!' continued he, fixing his eyes on his wife, who changed colour, and looked more and more disconcerted as he proceeded. `What a noble figure she has! and what magnificent black eyes; and what a fine spirit of her own;--and what a tongue of her own, too, when she likes to use it--I perfectly adore her!--But never mind, Milicent; I wouldn't have her for my wife--not if she'd a kingdom for her dowry! I'm better satisfied with the one I have.--Now, then! what do you look so sulky for? don't you believe me?'

`Yes, I believe you,' murmured she, in a tone of half sad, half sullen resignation, as she turned away to stroke the hair of her sleeping infant, that she had laid on the sofa beside her.

`Well then, what makes you so cross? Come here Milly, and tell me why you can't be satisfied with my assurance.'

She went, and, putting her little hand within his arm, looked up in his face, and said softly,--

`What does it amount to Ralph? Only to this, that though you admire Annabella so much, and for qualities that I don't possess, you would still rather have me than her for your wife, which merely proves that you don't think it necessary to love your wife: you are satisfied if she can keep your house and take care of your child. But I'm not cross; I'm only sorry; for,' added she in a low, tremulous accent, withdrawing her hand from his arm, and bending her looks on the rug, `if you don't love me, you don't, and it can't be helped.'

`Very true: but who told you I didn't? Did I say I loved Annabella?'

`You said you adored her.'

`True, but adoration isn't love. I adore Annabella, but I don't love her; and I love thee Milicent, but I don't adore thee.' In proof of his affection, he clutched a handful of her light brown ringlets and appeared to twist them unmercifully.

`Do you really, Ralph?' murmured she with a faint smile beaming through her tears, just putting up her hand to his, in token that he pulled rather too hard.

`To be sure I do,' responded he: `only you bother me rather, sometimes.'

`I bother you!' cried she in very natural surprise.

`Yes, you--but only by your exceeding goodness--when a boy has been cramming raisins and sugar- plums all day, he longs for a squeeze of sour orange by way of a change. And did you never, Milly, observe the sands on the sea-shore; how nice and smooth they look, and how soft and easy they feel to the foot? But if you plod along, for half an hour, over this soft, easy carpet--giving way at every step, yielding the more the harder you press,--you'll find it rather wearisome work, and be glad enough to come to a bit of good, firm rock, that won't budge an inch whether you stand, walk, or stamp upon it; and, though it be hard as the nether millstone, you'll find it the easier footing after all.'

`I know what you mean, Ralph,' said she, nervously playing with her watch-guard and tracing the figure on the rug with the point of her tiny foot, `I know what you mean, but I thought you always liked to be yielded to; and I can't alter now.

`I do like it,' replied he, bringing her to him by another tug at her hair. `You mustn't mind my talk Milly. A man must have something to grumble about; and if he can't complain that his wife harries him to death with her perversity and ill-humour, he must complain that she wears him out with her kindness and gentleness.'

`But why complain at all, unless, because you are tired and dissatisfied?'