“O, Mabel, if you would only listen to me.  To-night I have heard such glorious thoughts that my whole being longed to share them with you.  Thoughts that would make any man or woman live a nobler and better life.  O, Mabel, be my helpmate.  Do not turn from one who loves you.”

“A strange way to manifest your love for me, spending your hours with other women,—­”

“Stop, Mabel.  I will, at least, have myself heard, and be free to hear the thoughts of other women, as well as those of men.  I begin to believe that the words of Hugh Wyman are too true, ’marriage, in nine cases out of ten, is a bondage-a yoke of tyranny, keeping two souls fretting and wearing each other’s lives away.’”

He stopped, fearful that he had gone too far, and looked earnestly on the cold features of his wife.  Forgive him, reader, he could not help comparing her then with Miss Evans, the latter so calm, earnest, and deep in her love for humanity and progressive life.

He stepped close to her side, and taking her hand as tenderly as a lover might, said,—­

“Mabel, forgive me; I was excited, and said too much.  I love you, as you well know, as I love no other woman, but I must have the innocent freedom of enjoying a friend’s society, even though that friend be a woman.

“O, certainly, Mr. Deane.  I would not for a moment debar you from social pleasures.  I see I am not congenial, and do not attract you.  Perhaps Miss Evans is your soul-affinity; if so, I beg you not to let me stand in your way.  I can go to my father’s, any day.”

“Mabel!” It was all he could utter, and went out of the room.

Alone, and left to her own reflections, she became more calm.  A tear of real penitence for her hasty words, stole down her cheek.  “I will go and tell Howard I am sorry for my unkind remarks,” she said, as she brushed it from her face, and she rose to do so.  At that moment a short, quick ring of the doorbell shook away the resolve, and she trembled with fear, unable to answer the summons.

How thankful she felt to hear her husband’s firm, manly step in the hall, and then his voice, low and rich as ever, welcoming her own parents.  Why were they here? and what could have happened? were the questions which came to her mind, as her mother rushed into the room, followed by her father, with a carpet-bag and sundry packages.

“We have given you a surprise this time, I guess, Mabel,” he said, kissing her as tenderly as he used to when she sat upon his knee, and listened to almost endless stories of his own making.

“But why is it that you are so late?” she asked, anxiously.

“The cars were delayed three hours by an accident, so instead of arriving in good time, we have come in rather out of order, but not unwelcome, Mabel, I know.”

He did not see her face, or he might have feared that the welcome was not as warm as usual.  She answered quickly: