truth is better than even the whitest of itlies." He had lived beside her and with her for a whole year now-this woman, so different from all other women he had ever known; and yet he seemed always to be finding out something new in hersome divine simplicity which made all his worldly wisdom useless; some innocent courage which put even his manliness to shame. But he was too truly manly not to own this. "My darling," he said, not laughing now, "I did not propose to tell a lie-not seriously. But the truth must be hid sometimes, when it is an unpleasant and humiliating truth. Come, then, shall we make a great effort, and appear at all these fine houses en grande tenue, and in a carriage and pair (Black's, perhaps, borrowed for the occasion), and make believe,' as the children say, that we are rich people?" t-no man could; but he saw the soft tired look-tired, but not weak: there was nothing weak about her: and he put his arm round her very tenderly. "My darling, speak; you know I will always listen to you, even though I may differ from you. No two people can always think alike. But I wanted a wife, a counsellor; I did not want a slave." She laughed; still she paused a little before answering. It was hard to go against him-hard to put into plain, ugly words the fact that she, a wife, dared to think her husband wrong. Dear as he was to her this passionately loved Roderick-there was something in the other love, dimly dawning, growing daily into a mysterious yet most absolute reality, which made her at once clear-sighted and brave, with the courage that all women ought to have when they think of themselves, not as themselves, but as the mothers of the men that are to be. "Would not that be acting a lie, which "Roderick"-he was startled by the comes to the same thing as telling it? sweet solemnity of her tone-"this seems Did not your father once say so? And a smaller thing than it is. Whether we you once told me that if"--she paused a accept these invitations or not, matters litmoment-"if you had boys, you would tle; but it does matter a great deal whethteach them exactly as your father taughter we begin our married life with truth or you, that either to tell or act a lie was absolutely impossible to a gentleman and a Jardine." "You little Jesuit!" 66 untruth; whether we meet the world with an utterly false face, or else a sullen face, rejecting all its kindness. Why not with a perfectly honest face, saying openly, Don't call me that!" and her eyes fill-We are poor; we know it; and it is not ed with the quick tears, which, however, pleasant, but it is no disgrace? We are she rarely allowed to fall-she was not a neither afraid nor ashamed.'' "crying" woman. "I can not argue; I can only feel and think. Dearest, I sit and think a great deal-more than in all my life before. I ought, you know—” Her head dropped, and a sudden flush came over the sweet young face, firm through all its sweetness, much firmer than even a little while, ago. Her brief eight months of married life had made a woman of her. And there were the long lonely hours-alone, yet not alone-when a wife, ever so young, can not choose but sit thinking of what God is going to give her; of the mingled joy and fear, and solemn responsibility, stretching out into far generations. Well indeed may she say, even as the holy woman of whom it is recorded," Behold the handmaid of the Lord, be it unto me according to thy word." Something of this-expressing what she never said-was written in Silence's face. Her husband could not quite understand That might be all very well in Utopia; but here? Did you ever know anybody who did it ?" "Yes; my father and mother did it. Yours-" Roderick hesitated. "Perhaps my father might, only-" They were both silent. "Think, dearest," she continued; "it is a question not merely for to-day or tomorrow, but for all our lives. We may be poor all our lives." "God forbid!" The hasty mutter, the gloomy look; they went to his wife's heart, and he could see they did; but still she never shrank. "I too say 'God forbid,' for I know even better than you do how hard poverty is. Oh, my Roderick! when I think of what I have cost you"-her voice faltered-" of all you have lost through me!" "Lost-and gained.” "Yes, I will not lightly value myself, nor underrate the woman you chose, who you thought would make you happy. And I will make you happy, even if we are not rich." "The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her,'" said he, fondly. "But, come, this is great nonsense, and quite beside the question. What is the question, by-the-bye? for I am getting rather confused, and"-looking at his watch"I must be off to my work. Oh, what a comfort work is! Don't you perceive that I have been twice as happy, and therefore twice as good, since I was at the mill ?" She saw through the little loving ruse to save her pain; it made her feel doubly the pain she was giving-was obliged to give. 66 You are always good"-taking his hand and kissing it-and inexpressibly good to me, no matter how great a burden I am." "The heaviest burden I ever had to carry, and the sweetest. But that is neither here nor there"-with a sudden change to seriousness, the serious, almost sad look that sometimes came over him, showing how the youth had changed into a man, the man into a husband-truly a husband-house-band, the stay and support of the house. "Dear, we have chosen our lot; we can not alter it; we would not if we could. It is not all bright; I know that; but we must not make it darker than it is. We must not look back." "No." "And for the future-" Then her strength seemed to come into her-strength born of a "farther-looking hope" than even he could take in. "It is of that future I think," she said. "We may be poor, as I said, all our lives. I hope not; but we may. Are we, and more than we, to make life one long struggle and deceit by 'keeping up appearances; or are we to face the worst, to appear exactly what we are, and trust the world to accept it as such? I believe it would at least the good half of it. For the others, why need we care?" Gently as she spoke, it was with a certain resoluteness, and the hand which clasped her husband's felt firm as steel. "For me," she went on, laying her hand on his shoulder and creeping close to him, "I am so proud, both for myself and you, that when these people invite me, I believe they really want me-me myself, and not my clothes or my carriage. And when they come and see me, I flatter myself it is really to visit me. And if I liked them, and felt them truly my friends, I would go and see them, and wish my husband to do the same, whether they were poor professeurs-like ours at Neuchâtel-or your English dukes and duchesses." "Even if they said to us, as I have seen condescendingly affixed to church doors, 'Come in your working clothes;'-for I am not even a professor; I am a working "As you mine, I hope; because then we can try and cure both. Dear, we are like two little children sent to school together. We may have many a hard lesson to learn; but we will learn them-together." He was silent. As she had said, things were harder for him than for her. She recognized this fully. You could have seen by her face that her heart bled for him, as people call it—that cruel "bleeding inside" which natures like hers so well understand; but she did not compromise or yield one inch even to him, and he knew her well enough by this time to be quite certain she never would. A weak man might have resented this, have taken refuge in that foolish "I have said it, and I'll stick to it," or kept up that obstinate assertion of masterdom which usually springs from an inward terror of slavery; but Roderick was prone to neither of these absurdities. He had that truest strength which never fears to yield, if there is a rational need for yielding. "My wife," he said at last, taking her hand and looking up with some gravity. but not a shadow of anger, "what do you wish me to do?" "Do richt, and fear nocht,' as your motto-our motto-says. That is all." "The simple truth. Say it, and act it." "How?" "Let us tell our neighbors that we are not rich enough for what is called 'society,' but that we feel their kindness, and will accept it whenever we can. Occasionally we will go and visit them-Symington, for instance, is quite within a walk; and when they visit us"-she smiled-"I hope I shall be able to give them a little hospitality, without need of a Caleb Balderstone." "My darling!" "Do not be afraid of me"-she kissed him with a slightly quivering lip. "Imingtons'," said he, with a smile. "You may be young and foolish, but I know see, I let you have your own way." how to keep up my husband's dignity, and my own. Now, shall I write the notes, or you?" "You," he said, and referred to the matter no more. At supper-time she laid before him silently a little bundle of letters, which he read, and he then looked up with the brightest smile. "What a comfort is a wife who can get one out of a difficulty! You have the prettiest way of putting thingsFrench grace added to Scotch honesty. How do you manage it ?" "I don't know. I just say what I feel; but I try to say it as pleasantly as I can. Why not?" "Why not, indeed! Only so few do it." He looked at her, sitting at the head of his table-young, indeed, but with a sweet matronly dignity, added to her wonderful crystalline simplicity-looked at her with all his heart in his eyes. "People say that though a man's business success rests with himself, his social status depends upon his wife. I think, whether rich or poor, I may be quite sure of mine." A glad light was in her eyes, but she made no answer, except just asking if the letters would do. "Yes. But, little lawgiver, I see you have accepted one invitation - the Symingtons'?" "You do not object? You liked them? And they will have a house full of pleasant people for Christmas-Lady Symington told me so. It is not good for man to be alone, not even with his own wife, who is half himself, and therefore no variety. Besides, I want you to see and be seen. I can not bear you to hide your light under a bushel." 66 So you ought, if you think it is a right way. And I may send off these notes? You agree?" me. Would you obey?" Silence paused a moment, and then answered, softly, but very distinctly: "No. Neither God nor man could require it of One must both honor and love the man that one obeys, or obedience is impossible. If a wife sees her husband doing wrong, she should try to prevent him; if he tells her to do wrong, she should refuse, for God is higher than man, even though it be one's own husband. Roderick, you might 'cut me up in little pieces,' as the children say, but not even you could make me do what I felt I ought not to do, or hinder me from doing what I thought was right." "My little rebel! No," snatching her to his bosom, "my little Conscience-the best conscience a man can have a wife who is afraid of nothing and nobody; not even of himself." "And you are not angry with me?" "Angry?-because you spoke your mind; even though I thought one thing and you another?—as may happen many and many a time. My dearest, did I not tell you once I wanted a wife, not a slave? Time enough for you to turn slave when I turn tyrant. I may like to rule-most men do; and it is fair they should, if they rule wisely; but I should despise myself if I attempted to tyrannize. Now kiss pentance-what had she to repent of ?— me! Our discussion is over; our first but in that tender reverence, that entire quarrel ended." trust, without which obedience is a fiction "Not a quarrel-only a difference of and love an impossibility. Then, ceasing opinion." "In which each holds his own till satisfactorily convinced of the contrary." "Or till both see that there may be a wisdom beyond both theirs, which is perhaps the best lesson one learns in marriage. Except one-my husband!” to talk, he put her on the sofa, with her work-table beside her, and threw himself on the hearth-rug at her feet, to "improve his mind," he said, and hers, by reading aloud. But, as often happened now, he was so tired that all these laudable intentions failed. He laid his head against his wife's lap, and fell fast asleep, with the And for the second time she took and kissed his hand, not in humiliation or re- | book in his hand. ST MARY ANERLEY. CHAPTER XIV. SERIOUS CHARGES. TEPHEN, if it was anybody else, you would listen to me in a moment," said Mrs. Anerley to her lord, a few days after that little interview in the Bempton Lane; "for instance, if it was poor Willie, how long would you be in believing it? But because it is Mary, you say pooh! pooh!' And I may as well talk to the old cracked churn." "First time of all my born days," the farmer answered, with a pleasant smile, "that ever I was resembled to a churn. But a man's wife ought to know best about un." "Stephen, it is not the churn-I mean you; and you never should attempt to ride off in that sort of way. I tell you Mary hath a mischief on her mind; and you never ought to bring up old churns to me. As long as I can carry almost anything in mind, I have been considered to be full of common-sense. And what should I use it upon, Captain Anerley, without it was my own daughter?" The farmer was always conquered when she called him "Captain Anerley." He took it to point at him as a pretender, a coxcomb fond of titles, a would-be officer who took good care to hold aloof from fighting. And he knew in his heart that he loved to be called "Captain Anerley" by every one who meant it. "I remember, Sophy, that in the old time you never resembled me to a churn. let alone a cracked one. You used to christen me a pillar, and a tree, and a rock, and a polished corner; but there, what's the odds, when a man has done his duty? The names of him makes no difference." "Twixt you and me, my dear," she said, "nothing can make any difference. We know one another too well for that. You are all that I ever used to call you, before I knew better about you, and when I used to dwell upon your hair and your smile. You know what I used to say of them, now, Stephen ?" "Most complimentary-highly complimentary! Another young woman brought me word of it, and it made me stick firm when my mind was doubtful." "And glad you ought to be that you did stick firm. And you have the Lord to thank for it, as well as your own sense. But no time to talk of our old times now. They are coming up again, with those younkers, I'm afraid. Willie is like a Church; and Jack-no chance of him getting the chance of it; but Mary, your darling of the lot, our Mary-her mind is unsettled, and a worry coming over her; the same as with me when I saw you first." "My dear," he said, in a tone of submission, and with a look that grieved her, "the knowledge of such things is with you. I can not enter into young maids' minds, any more than command a company." "It is the Lord that directs those "Stephen, you could do both, if you things," the farmer answered, steadfast ly; "and Mary hath the sense of her mother, I believe. That it is maketh me so fond on her. If the young maid hath taken a fancy, it will pass, without a bit of substance to settle on. Why, how many fancies had you, Sophy, before you had the good luck to clap eyes on me?" 66 'That is neither here nor there," his wife replied, audaciously; "how many times have you asked such questions, which are no concern of yours? You could not expect me, before ever I saw you, not to have any eyes or ears. I had plenty to say for myself; and I was not plain; and I acted accordingly." Master Anerley thought about this, because he had heard it and thought of it many times before. He hated to think about anything new, having never known any good come of it; and his thoughts would rather flow than fly, even in the fugitive brevity of youth. And now, in his settled way, his practice was to tread thought deeper into thought, as a man in deep snow keeps the track of his own boots, or as a child writes ink on pencil in his earliest copy-books. "You acted according," he said; "and Mary might act according to you, mother." "How can you talk so, Stephen? That would be a different thing altogether. Young girls are not a bit like what they used to be in my time. No steadiness, no diligence, no duty to their parents. Gadding about is all they think of, and lightheaded chatter, and saucy ribbons." "May be so with some of them. I never see none of that in Mary." on any one, have him she will, be he cowboy, thief, or chimney-sweep. So now you know what to expect, Master Anerley." Stephen Anerley never made light of his wife's opinions in those few cases wherein they differed from his own. She agreed with him so generally that in common fairness he thought very highly of her wisdom, and the present subject was one upon which she had an especial right to be heard. Sophy," he said, as he set up his coat to be off to a cutting of clover on the hill for no reaping would begin yet for another month-“the things you have said shall abide in my mind. Only you be a-watching of the little wench. Harry Tanfield is the man I would choose for her of all others. But I never would force any husband on a lass; though stern would I be to force a bad one off, or one in an unfit walk of life. No inkle in your mind who it is, or wouldst have told "There is never such another maid in all York County, nor in England, to my But thinking." "Mary is a good girl, and well brought up," her mother could not help admitting, "and fond of her home, and industrious. But for all that, she must be looked after sharply. And who can look after a child like her mother? I can tell you one thing, Master Stephen: your daughter Mary has more will of her own than the rest of your family all put together, including even your own good wife." "Prodigious!" cried the farmer, while he rubbed his hands and laughed "prodigious, and a man might say impossible. A young lass like Mary, such a coaxing little poppet, as tender as a lambkin, and as soft as wool!" "Flannel won't only run one way; no more won't Mary," said her mother. "I know her better a long sight than you do; and I say if ever Mary sets her heart "She is my daughter as well as yours, and I would be the last to make cheap of her. I will not say another word until I know. But if I am right-which the Lord forbid-we shall both be ashamed of her, Stephen." For, "The Lord forbid! The Lord forbid! Amen. I will not hear another word." The farmer snatched up his hat, and made off with a haste unusual for him, while his wife sat down, and crossed her arms, and began to think rather bitterly. without any dream of such a possibility, she was jealous sometimes of her own child. Presently the farmer rushed back again, triumphant with a new idea. His eyes were sparkling, and his step full of spring, and a brisk smile shone upon his strong and ruddy face. "What a pair of stupes we must be to go on so!" he cried, with a couple of bright guineas in his hand. "Mary hath |