“My husband,” exclaimed she, in a soft, sweet tone, “put down your book; sit upon this sofa; I want to speak with you.”

I rose, a little petulantly, and did as she desired.  She threw her arms around my neck, and kissed me tenderly.

“I have something to ask of you,” she said,—­“something to request.”

“What is it?” I exclaimed,—­almost sharply.

“It is that you would not invite Alphonse to come here any more,—­that you would never speak of my going out with him again, but encourage his leaving here,—­and that you would give me more of your society.”

“Pray, what does all this mean, Eudora?” I demanded.  “Alphonse and you have been quarrelling, I suppose.”

“No, my husband.”

“Then, what do you mean by such nonsense?” I asked, in an irritated tone.

“I scarcely have courage to tell you,” she cried,—­“for I fear it will make us both forever miserable.”

Thoroughly aroused by this astounding avowal, I repeated, in a stern tone and without one touch of sympathy, my demand for an explanation.  She knelt lovingly at my feet,—­not in a posture submissive or humiliating, but as if thus she could get nearer my heart,—­and began, calmly:—­

“Sometimes, my husband, I have thought my feelings for you were such as I ought to entertain for my father or an elder brother.  I venerate and admire your character; I would die for you,—­oh, how willingly!—­but sometimes I fear it is not love I feel for you.”

She paused, and looked at me earnestly.

“How long have you felt as you now do?” I asked, with an icy calmness.

“I do not know.  I cannot tell.  But I have not thought of it seriously till Alphonse came here,—­and I want you to send him away.”

“And do you love Alphonse?” I asked, slowly.

“Oh, God!  I do not know.  I cannot tell what is the matter with me.  Perhaps it is mere infatuation.  Alas!  I cannot tell.”

“And why do you come with this to me?” I said sneeringly, devil that I was.

“Because you are my husband,—­because you are wise and strong and good, and the only one who can advise me,—­because I am in danger, and you can save me,” she cried, looking imploringly on my frigid features.

“And for that purpose you come to me?”

“I do, I do!” she exclaimed.  At the same time she threw her arms around me passionately, buried her face in my bosom, and wept.

There was a struggle within me,—­not violent nor desperate, but calm and cold,—­while the face of that fair young creature was pressed close to my heart by her own arms thrown clingingly around me.  I did not move the while; I did not respond to her sad embrace even by the slightest pressure of my hand.  Yet I was all the time conscious that a pure and noble being was supplicating me for help,—­a being who had devoted her life to me,—­whose soul was stainless, while mine was spotted with the