We had scarcely half admired the taper-stand and the Mercury when the carriage came for Mrs. Harris, who insisted on taking away Laura with her to the opera.

“No matter whether you thought of going or not; and, happily, there’s no danger of Delphine being lonely.  ‘Two are company,’ you know Emerson says, ‘but three are a congregation.’  So they will be glad to spare you.  There, now! that is all you want,—­and this shawl.”

After they went, I sat listening for nearly half an hour to the low murmurs in the next room, and wishing the stranger would only go, so that I might exhibit my new treasures.  At last the strange gentleman opened the door softly, talking all the way, across the room, through the entry, and finally whispering himself fairly out-of-doors.  When my husband came in, I was eager to show him the Mercury, and the lily, and the taper-stand.

“And do you know, after all, I hadn’t the real nobleness and truthfulness and right-mindedness to tell Mrs. Harris that these and Aunt Allen’s gift were all I had received!  I am ashamed of myself, to have such a mean mortification about what is really of no importance.  Certainly, if my friends don’t care enough for me to send me something, I ought to be above caring for it.”

“I don’t know that, Del.  Your mortification is very natural.  How can we help caring?  Do you like your Aunt Allen very much?” added he, abruptly.

“Because she gave me fifty dollars?  Yes, I begin to think I do,” said I, laughing.

He looked at me quickly.

“Your Aunt Allen is very rich, is she not?”

“I believe so.  Why?  You look very serious.  I neither respect nor love her for her riches; and I haven’t seen her these ten years.”

He looked sober and abstracted; but when I spoke, he smiled a little.

“Do you remember Ella’s chapter on Old China?” said he, sitting down on the sofa, and—­I don’t mind saying—­putting one arm round my waist.

“Yes,—­why?”

“Do you remember Bridget’s plaintive regret that they had no longer the good old times when they were poor? and about the delights of the shilling gallery?”

“Yes,—­what made you think of it?”

“What a beautiful chapter that is!—­their gentle sorrow that they could no longer make nice bargains for books! and his wearing new, neat, black clothes, alas! instead of the overworn suit that was made to hang on a few weeks longer, that he might buy the old folio of Beaumont and Fletcher!  Do you remember it, Delphine?”

“Yes, I do.  And I think there is a deal of pleasure in considering and contriving,—­though it’s prettier in a book”—­

“For my part,” interrupted my husband, as though he had not heard me speak,—­“for my part, I am sorry one cannot have such an exquisite appreciation of pleasure but through pain; for—­I am tired of labor—­and privation—­and, in short, poverty.  To work so hard, and so constantly!—­with such a long, weary vista before one!—­and these petty gains!  Don’t you think poverty is the one thing hateful, Delphine?”