So, gradually, in the old way, the old sweet habits of the long honeymoon were broken.  Harrie dreamed no more on the cliffs by the bright noon sea; had no time to spend making scarlet pictures in the little bathing-suit; had seldom strength to row into the sunset, her hair loose, the bay on fire, and one to watch her from the shore.  There were no more walks up the beach to dinner; there came an end to the drives in the happy twilight; she could not climb now upon her husband’s knee, because of the heavy baby on her own.

The spasms of newspaper reading subsided rapidly; Corinne and Racine gathered the dust in peace upon their shelves; Mrs. Sharpe made no more fancy jellies, and found no time to inquire after other people’s babies.

One becomes used to anything after a while, especially if one happens to be a man.  It would have surprised Dr. Sharpe, if he had taken the pains to notice,—­which I believe he never did,—­how easily he became used to his solitary drives and disturbed teas; to missing Harrie’s watching face at door or window; to sitting whole evenings by himself while she sang to the fretful baby overhead with her sweet little tired voice; to slipping off into the “spare room” to sleep when the child cried at night, and Harrie, up and down with him by the hour, flitted from cradle to bed, or paced the room, or sat and sang, or lay and cried herself, in sheer despair of rest; to wandering away on lonely walks; to stepping often into a neighbor’s to discuss the election or the typhoid in the village; to forgetting that his wife’s conversational capacities could extend beyond Biddy and teething; to forgetting that she might ever hunger for a twilight drive, a sunny sail, for the sparkle and freshness, the dreaming, the petting, the caresses, all the silly little lovers’ habits of their early married days; to going his own ways, and letting her go hers.

Yet he loved her, and loved her only, and loved her well.  That he never doubted, nor, to my surprise, did she.  I remember once, when on a visit there, being fairly frightened out of the proprieties by hearing her call him “Dr. Sharpe.”  I called her away from the children soon after, on pretence of helping me unpack.  I locked the door, pulled her down upon a trunk tray beside me, folded both her hands in mine, and studied her face; it had grown to be a very thin little face, less pretty than it was in the shadow of the woodbine, with absent eyes and a sad mouth.  She knew that I loved her, and my heart was full for the child; and so, for I could not help it, I said,—­“Harrie, is all well between you?  Is he quite the same?”

She looked at me with a perplexed and musing air.

“The same?  O yes, he is quite the same to me.  He would always be the same to me.  Only there are the children, and we are so busy.  He—­why, he loves me, you know,—­” she turned her head from side to side wearily, with the puzzled expression growing on her forehead,—­“he loves me just the same,—­just the same.  I am his wife; don’t you see?”