“What matter?” said he.  Lucia would have been very angry, and perhaps ought to have been so; for what business of Campbell’s was it whether her husband were kind to her or not?  But there was a deep sadness, almost despair, in the tone, which disarmed her.

“Oh, Major Campbell, is it not a glorious thing to be a poet?  And is it not a glorious thing to be a poet’s wife?  Oh, for the sake of that—­if I could but see him honoured, appreciated, famous, as he will be some day!  Though I think” (and she spoke with all a woman’s pride) “he is somewhat famous now, is he not?”

“Famous?  Yes,” answered Campbell, with an abstracted voice, and then rejoined quickly, “If you could but see that, what then?”

“Why then,” said she, with a half smile (for she had nearly entrapped herself into an admission of what she was determined to conceal)—­“why then, I should be still more what I am now, his devoted little wife, who cares for nobody and nothing but putting his study to rights, and bringing up his children.”

“Happy children!” said he, after a pause, and half to himself, “who have such a mother to bring them up.”

“Do you really think so?  But flattery used not to be one of your sins.  Ah, I wish you could give me some advice about how I am to teach them.”

“So it is she who has the work of education, not he!” thought Campbell to himself; and then answered gaily,—­

“My dear madam, what can a confirmed old bachelor like me know about children?”

“Oh, don’t you know” (and she gave one of her pretty Irish laughs) “that it is the old maids who always write the children’s books, for the benefit of us poor ignorant married women?  But” (and she spoke earnestly again) “we all know how wise and good you are.  I did not know it in old times.  I am afraid I used to torment you when I was young and foolish.”

“Where on earth can Mellot and Mr. Vavasour be?” asked Campbell.

“Oh, never mind!  Mr. Mellot has gone wandering down the glen with his apparatus, and my Elsley has gone wandering after him, and will find him in due time, with his head in a black bag, and a great bull just going to charge him from behind, like that hapless man in ‘Punch.’  I always tell Mr. Mellot that will be his end.”

Campbell was deeply shocked to hear the light tone in which she talked of the passionate temper of a man whom she so surely loved.  How many outbursts of it there must have been; how many paroxysms of astonishment, shame, and grief,—­perhaps, alas! counterbursts of anger—­ ere that heart could have become thus proof against the ever-lowering thunder-storm!

“Well,” he said, “all we can do is to walk down to the car, and let them follow; and, meanwhile, I will give you my wise opinion about this education question, whereof I know nothing.”

“It will be all oracular to me, for I know nothing either;” and she put her arm through his, and walked on.