“But, Mrs. Harrison,” returned Edwards, “her state of health puts this out of the question.  You know that she was dangerously ill, and that if a nurse had not been provided for the child, it would have died.”

“I know all that.  But, when the sudden illness abated, and she was able to give nourishment to her babe, all, with one accord, denied her a mother’s privilege, though she plead for it day after day with tears.  Ah, Percy!  I fear a great and irreparable wrong was then done.”

“It may be so.  But I cannot believe but that we acted rightly.  Our motives were at least good.”

“No one doubts that.”

’I am sure, if she would consent to leave home for a few weeks, her health would improve,” said Percy Edwards.

“It would, no doubt, benefit her.  But she has an unconquerable reluctance to going.  Still, I think we may induce her to do as we wish.  Only we must act towards her with great tenderness.  I am afraid—­pardon me for speaking plainly—­that you do not consider, sufficiently, her weak state.  She needs to be treated with the gentleness and affection that we show to a child.”

Mr. Edwards looked surprised at this remark.

“I am sure, Mrs. Harrison,” he replied, “no man could do more for the happiness of a woman, than I do for that of Kate.  How I could act differently is more than I can imagine.”

“It may be natural to you, Mr. Edwards,” said Mrs. Harrison, “but you are wanting in that tenderness of manner so grateful, nay, so essential to the heart of a wife.”

“I am!”

“I speak plainly, because the necessity for doing so is imperative.  Your manner towards Kate has ever been respectful, polite, attentive, but not affectionate; and without the latter, the former never can satisfy the heart of a loving woman.  I do not blame you for this.  It may all be natural; but I feel it to be my duty to speak of it now, and to suggest, at least temporarily, a change.”

Mr. Edwards did not reply for some moments.  He then said—­

“Mrs. Harrison, I must own that what you allege surprises me.  You charge me, by implication at least, with want of affection for my wife.”

“No, Percy,” returned the lady quickly.  “I did not mean to say that.  I only spoke of your manner towards her, which lacks the warmth a woman’s heart requires.  I have not said that you did not love her.”

“I do not see how I can act differently; for I see no defect in my conduct,” said the young man, with a repellant manner.  “If my wife misinterprets the manner in which I treat her, and makes herself unhappy about it, that is no fault of mine.  She ought to have the good sense to take me as I am, and not make herself wretched because I am not what I cannot be.”

“You still misunderstand me, Percy,” urged (sic) the the mother of Kate.  “I did not say that your wife made herself wretched because your manner towards her was not different.  I only suggested a modification of it, at least for the present, as a means of aiding in her return to a healthier state of mind.  But we will say no more about this.  I have frankly opened my mind to you, and thus far discharged my duty.  You must now act as your own heart directs.”