THE wedding party was to spend a week at Saratoga, and it was now the third day since its arrival.  The time had passed pleasantly, or wearily, according to the state of mind or social habits and resources of the individual.  The bride, it was remarked by some of the party, seemed dull; and Rose Carman, who knew her friend better, perhaps, than any other individual in the company, and kept her under close observation, was concerned to notice an occasional curtness of manner toward her husband, that was evidently not relished.  Something had already transpired to jar the chords so lately attuned to harmony.

After dinner a ride was proposed by one of the company.  Emerson responded favorably, but Irene was indifferent.  He urged her, and she gave an evidently reluctant consent.  While the gentlemen went to make arrangement for carriages, the ladies retired to their rooms.  Miss Carman accompanied the bride.  She had noticed her manner, and felt slightly troubled at her state of mind, knowing, as she did, her impulsive character and blind self-will when excited by opposition.

“I don’t want to ride to-day!” exclaimed Irene, throwing herself into a chair as soon as she had entered her room; “and Hartley knows that I do not.”

Her cheeks burned and her eyes sparkled.

“If it will give him pleasure to ride out,” said Rose, in a gentle soothing manner, “you cannot but have the same feeling in accompanying him.”

“I beg your pardon!” replied Irene, briskly.  “If I don’t want to ride, no company can make the act agreeable.  Why can’t people learn to leave others in freedom?  If Hartley had shown the same unwillingness to join this riding party that I manifested, do you think I would have uttered a second word in favor of going?  No.  I am provoked at his persistence.”

“There, there, Irene!” said Miss Carman, drawing an arm tenderly around the neck of her friend; “don’t trust such sentences on your lips.  I can’t bear to hear you talk so.  It isn’t my sweet friend speaking.”

“You are a dear, good girl, Rose,” replied Irene, smiling faintly, “and I only wish that I had a portion of your calm, gentle spirit.  But I am as I am, and must act out if I act at all.  I must be myself or nothing.”

“You can be as considerate of others as of yourself?” said Rose.

Irene looked at her companion inquiringly.

“I mean,” added Rose, “that you can exercise the virtue of self-denial in order to give pleasure to another—­especially if that other one be an object very dear to you.  As in the present case, seeing that your husband wants to join this riding party, you can, for his sake, lay aside your indifference, and enter, with a hearty good-will, into the proposed pastime.”

“And why cannot he, seeing that I do not care to ride, deny himself a little for my sake, and not drag me out against my will?  Is all the yielding and concession to be on my side?  Must his will rule in everything?  I can tell you what it is, Rose, this will never suit me.  There will be open war between us before the honeymoon has waxed and waned, if he goes on as he has begun.”