I kissed her tenderly, and she answered her own question.

“Ten years; and you are not so much my senior.  I do not see any force in that objection.  Still if I had been commissioned to select a wife for Mr. Wallingford, I would not have chosen Florence Williams.”

“Her father is well off, and growing richer every day.”

“Worth taking into the account, I suppose, as one of the reasons in favor of the choice,” said my wife.  “But I hardly think Wallingford is the man to let that consideration have much influence.”

There was no mistake about the matter of furnishing Ivy Cottage, as the place was called.  I saw carpets going in on the very next day.  All the shrubbery had been trimmed, the grounds cleared up and put in order, and many choice flowers planted in borders already rich in floral treasures.

Curiosity now began to flutter its wings, lift up its head, and look around sharply.  Many arrows had taken their flight towards the heart of our young bachelor lawyer, but, until now, there had been no evidence of a wound.  What fair maiden had conquered at last?  I met him not long after, walking in the street with Florence Williams.  She looked smiling and happy; and his face was brighter than I had ever seen it.  This confirmed to me the rumor.

Mrs. Wallingford was not to be approached on the subject.  If she knew of an intended marriage, she feigned ignorance; and affected not to understand the hints, questions, and surmises of curious neighbors.

A week or two later, and I missed Wallingford from his office.  The lad in attendance said that he was away from the town, but would return in a few days.

“I have a surprise for you,” said my wife on that very afternoon.  She had a letter in her hand just received by post.  Her whole face was radiant with pleasure.  Drawing a card from the envelope, she held it before my eyes.  I read the names of Henry Wallingford and Blanche Montgomery, and the words, “At home Wednesday evening, June 15th.  Ivy Cottage.”

“Bravo!” I exclaimed, as soon as a momentary bewilderment passed, showing more than my wonted enthusiasm.  “The best match since Hymen linked our fates together, Constance.”

“May it prove as happy a one!” my wife answered, with a glance of tenderness.

“It will, Constance—­it will.  That is a marriage after my own heart; one that I have, now and then, dimly foreshadowed in imagination, but never thought to see.”

“It is over five years since we saw Blanche,” remarked Constance.  “I wonder how she looks!  If life’s sunshine and rain have produced a rich harvest in her soul, or only abraded the surface, and marred the sweet beauty that captivated us of old!  I wonder how she has borne the shadowing of earthly prospects—­the change from luxurious surroundings!”

“They have not dimmed the virgin gold; you may be sure of that, Constance,” was my reply to this.