“Hum-m—­well.”  This was the cold, moody response of Mrs. Ellis.

“Mr. Hemming says that his wife’s health is much better than it was.”

“Does he?” very coldly uttered.

“He seemed very cheerful.”

Mrs. Ellis made no comment upon this remark of her husband, and the latter said nothing more.

Tea was soon announced, and the husband and wife went, with their two oldest children, to partake of their evening meal.  A cloud still hung over Caroline’s features.  Try as Ellis would to feel indifferent to his wife’s unhappy state of mind, his sensitiveness to the fact became more and more painful every moment.  The interest at first felt in his children, gradually died away, and, by the time supper was over, he was in a moody and fretted state, yet had he manfully striven to keep his mind evenly balanced.

On returning to the sitting-room, the sight of the book he had brought home caused Ellis to make a strong effort to regain his self-possession.  He had set his heart on reading that book to Cara, because he was sure she would get interested therein; and he hoped, by introducing this better class of reading, to awaken a healthier appetite for mental food than she now possessed.  So he occupied himself with a newspaper, while his wife undressed the children and put them to bed.  It seemed to him a long time before she was ready to sit down with her sewing at the table, upon which the soft, pleasant light of their shaded lamp was falling.  At last she came, with her small work-basket in her mind.  Topmost of all its contents was a French novel.  When Ellis saw this, there came doubts and misgivings across his heart.

“Cara,” said he quickly, and in a tone of forced cheerfulness, taking up, at the same time, his volume of Prescott,—­“I brought this book home on purpose to read aloud.  I dipped into it, to-day, and found it so exceedingly interesting, that I deferred the pleasure of its perusal until I could share it with you.”

Now, under all the circumstances, it cost Ellis considerable effort to appear cheerful and interested, while saying this.

“What book is it?” returned Cara, in a chilling tone, while her eyes were fixed upon her husband’s face, with any thing but a look of love.

“The first volume of Prescott’s History of Mexico, one of the most charming”—­

“Pho!  I don’t want to hear your dull old histories!” said Cara, with a contemptuous toss of the head.

“Dull old histories!” retorted Ellis, whose patience was now gone.  “Dull old histories!  You don’t know what you are talking about.  There’s more real interest in this book than in all the French novels that ever were invented to turn silly women’s heads.”

Of course, Mrs. Ellis “fired up” at this.  She was just at the right point of ignition to blaze out at a single breath of reproof.  We will not repeat the cutting language she used to her husband.  Enough, that, in the midst of the storm that followed, Ellis started up, and bowing, with mock ceremony, said—­