“Nonsense! that wouldn’t hurt me,” he returned, with an amused smile; “and if you won’t get the desk, I’ll go after it myself.”

“No, you mustn’t:  I sha’n’t allow it,” she said, knitting her brows, and trying to look stern.

“Then get it for me.”

“Well,” she said reflectively, “I suppose there’ll have to be a compromise.  I’ll get the desk, if you’ll let me act as your amanuensis.”

“We’ll consider that arrangement after you have brought it.”

“No:  you must agree to my proposition first.”

“Why, what a little tyrant you are!” he laughed.  “Well, I consent.  Now will you please to bring the desk?”

“Yes,” she said, jumping up, and crossing the room to where it stood; “and if you are very good, you may write a postscript with your own hand.”

“I’ll do it all with my own hand,” he said as she returned to his side.

“Why, Ned!” she exclaimed in surprise, “I thought you were a man of your word!”

“And so I am, I trust,” he said, smiling at her astonished look, then catching her right hand in his.  “Is not this mine?” he asked:  “did you not give it to me?—­Let me see—­nearly two years ago?”

“Yes, I did,” she answered, laughing and blushing with pleasure and happiness:  “you are right; it is yours.  So you have every right to use it, and must do so.”

“Ah!” he said, “‘a wilful woman will have her way,’ I see:  there never was a truer saying.  No, that won’t do,” as she seated herself with the desk on her lap:  “put it on the table.  I can’t have you bending over to write on your lap, and so growing round-shouldered, especially in my service.”

“Any thing to please you,” she returned gayly, doing as he directed.  “I suppose my right hand is not all of me that you lay claim to?”

“No, indeed!  I claim you altogether, as my better and dearer half,” he said, his tone changing from jest to earnest, and the light of love shining in his eyes.

She ran to him at that, put her arms round his neck, and laid her cheek to his.  “No, Ned, I can’t have you say that,” she murmured, “you who are so good and wise, while I am such a silly and faulty thing, not at all worthy to be your wife.  Whatever made you marry me?”

“Love,” he answered, drawing her closer, and fondly caressing her hair and cheek,—­“love that grows stronger and deeper with every day we live together, dearest.”

“Dear Ned, my own dear husband!” she said, hugging him tighter.  “Words could never tell how much I love you, or how I rejoice in your love for me:  you are truly my other, my best, half, and I don’t know how I could live without you.”

“Our mutual love is a cause for great gratitude to God,” he said reverently.  “There are so many miserably unhappy couples, I feel that I can never be thankful enough for the little wife who suits me so entirely.”

“You are my very greatest earthly blessing,” she replied, lifting her head, and gazing into his face with eyes shining with joy and love; “and your words make me very, very happy.  Now,” releasing herself from his embrace, “it’s time to attend to business, isn’t it?  I am ready to write if you will dictate.”  And she seated herself before the desk, and took up her pen.