“Art thou gone so? love, lord, ay husband, friend! 
  I must hear from thee every day in the hour,
  For in a minute there are many days.”

Ah, God! what is the count of all the men and women whom, since it was first “plaid publiquely with great applause,” this tragedy has reminded of the what might have been!

Mr. Didymus Farrow, during his wife’s absence in Verona, had been very much engaged in whittling a monkey which toppled over on a long pole, but being dissatisfied with its performance he had taken his accordion out of the box, and, just as Lady Capulet called, he struck up “Down amongst the dead men,” which, whatever its merit may be, is not particularly well adapted to that instrument.  Verona and Romeo were straightway replaced by Cowfold and the Cowfold consort.  He was in the best of spirits, and he stooped down just as his wife was waking, took the cat—­which was lying before the fire—­and threw it on her lap.

“Oh, please do not!” she exclaimed, a little angry, shocked, and sad.

“I wish you would not sit and addle your brains over those books.  Blessed if I don’t burn them all!  What good do they do?  Why don’t you talk?”

“I’ve nothing particular to say.”

“You never have anything to say when you’ve been reading.  Now if I read a bit of the newspaper, I’ve always something to talk about.”

She was silent, and her husband continued his tune.

“Miriam, my dear, you aren’t well.  Are you in pain?”

Mr. Farrow never understood any suffering unless it was an ache of some bind.

“Let me get you just a drop of brandy with some ginger in it.”

“No, thank you.”

“Yes, you will have just a drop,” and he jumped up at once and went to the cupboard.

“I tell you I will not.”

The “not” came out with such emphasis that he desisted and sat down.  The monkey lay on the table, the accordion lay there too; Mr. Farrow stopped his whistling and sat back in his chair with his finger to his mouth.  At last, he took up the book, turned it over, and put it down again.  He loved his wife after his fashion, and could not bear to see anybody distressed.  He placed his chair beside hers, and lifting her arm, put it round his neck, she nothing resisting.

“Tell me now, there’s a dear, what’s the matter,” and he kissed her.

“Nothing,” she said, somewhat softened by his caresses.

“That’s right, my twopenny,” a name he used confidentially to her.  “A little faint; the room is rather close,” and he opened the window a trifle at the top, returning to his seat, and embracing her again.

Yet, though she yielded, it was not Mr. Farrow who held her in his arms; she purposely strove to think an imaginary Romeo’s head was on her neck—­his face was something like the face of Montgomery—­and she kept up the illusion all that night.  When she came down to breakfast and sat opposite her husband, it struck her suddenly that she had cheated him and was a sinner.