“My Fabian,” she would say to herself, “my Fabian can never prove unfaithful to me.  He is too much of an idler, and thinks only of his sofa, pipe and tobacco.”

But we will resume the thread of the worthy couple’s conversation.

“Who is again making love to you?” inquired Mr. Fabian again.

Mrs. Ulrica uplifted her reproachful eyes to Heaven.  “He asks who! he has not even observed it!”

“No, my dear wife, I have not.”

“And yet he has this entire day—­,” she turned her face aside, feigning to conceal a blush.

“To-day!  Why we have had no gentlemen guests to-day, except the pastor’s assistant who came with the young ladies, and took his departure before they did.”

“No gentlemen guests!  As if he, the accomplished scholar, and entertaining gentleman, was nobody! and it was nothing that—­”

“Well, what further?”

“That he, carried away by those charms, that you have so long observed with indifference, should become deeply smitten with me.”

“What!  Do you think he entertains a secret affection for you?”

“Affection, I will not say affection; but passion, which word your dull brain cannot comprehend, you virtuous and modest Joseph!” the lady laughed at her own joke, and then continued, “I am not certain whether I had better tell the young man that I have discovered his hope; but I shall be forced to forbid his visiting me, which will be the same as telling the whole world how this delicate affair stands.”

“Will you permit me to give you a little advice?” said Mr. Fabian.

“Why not, Fabian, you are my husband, and as such you have the right to do so.”

“Then I would say, drop the subject where it stands.”

“Are you not fearful!  Do you not shudder at the possibility of an unpleasant event?”

“O, my dearest Ulgenie, can I for a moment doubt your strength of soul, your virtue?”

“It is true I am thus strongly armed, and I thank you, my dear Fabian, for confiding in my faithfulness.”—­As was usual a few cheering sun-beams followed the cooling shower.—­“Forgive me, my dear husband, for harrowing your feelings; but there are times when even the strongest minded are weak.”

“You are an exception, my love.”

These confident words had nearly renewed the vexation within Mistress Ulrica’s bosom; but suddenly she was struck with an idea that caused her to assume a still more affectionate expression of countenance.

“We will trouble ourselves no more concerning that deeply to be pitied young man.  I have something else which I wish to confide to you.”

“Another lover?” inquired Mr. Fabian, widening his eyes.

“I refer to a youth, for whose welfare I am deeply concerned.”

“Explain yourself, my dear.”

“Fabian, you must not hate him, for the young man does not understand himself, this I will answer for with my life, and perhaps he only indulges a platonic affection for one who realizes the romantic ideas which his youthful imagination had formerly brought forth.”