My wife trusted him as much as I did.

“No—­o—­o,” I answered.  “Not anything exactly wrong.”

“It must be very nearly wrong, Henry, to make you look so miserable.”

I began to feel ashamed and more uncomfortable.

“He has been falling in love with Martha,” I said; “and when I put one thing to another, I fear he may have made her fall in love with him too.”  My wife laughed merrily.

“Whal a wicked curate!”

“Well, but you know it is not exactly agreeable.”

“Why?”

“You know why well enough.”

“At least, I am not going to take it for granted.  Is he not a good man?”

“Yes.”

“Is he not a well-educated man?”

“As well as myself—­for his years.”

“Is he not clever?”

“One of the cleverest fellows I ever met”

“Is he not a gentleman?”

“I have not a fault to find with his manners.”

“Nor with his habits?” my wife went on.

“No.”

“Nor with his ways of thinking?”

“No.—­But, Ethelwyn, you know what I mean quite well.  His family, you know.”

“Well, is his father not a respectable man?”

“Oh, yes, certainly.  Thoroughly respectable.”

“He wouldn’t borrow money of his tailor instead of paying for his clothes, would he?”

“Certainly not”

“And if he were to die to-day he would carry no debts to heaven with him?”

“I believe not.”

“Does he bear false witness against his neighbour?”

“No.  He scorns a lie as much as any man I ever knew.”

“Which of the commandments is it in particular that he breaks, then?”

“None that I know of; excepting that no one can keep them yet that is only human.  He tries to keep every one of them I do believe.”

“Well, I think Tom very fortunate in having such a father.  I wish my mother had been as good.”

“That is all true, and yet—­”

“And yet, suppose a young man you liked had had a fashionable father who had ruined half a score of trades-people by his extravagance—­would you object to him because of his family?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Then, with you, position outweighs honesty—­in fathers, at least.”

To this I was not ready with an answer, and my wife went on.

“It might be reasonable if you did though, from fear lest he should turn out like his father.—­But do you know why I would not accept your offer of taking my name when I should succeed to the property?”

“You said you liked mine better,” I answered.

“So I did.  But I did not tell you that I was ashamed that my good husband should take a name which for centuries had been borne by hard-hearted, worldly minded people, who, to speak the truth of my ancestors to my husband, were neither gentle nor honest, nor high-minded.”

“Still, Ethelwyn, you know there is something in it, though it is not so easy to say what.  And you avoid that.  I suppose Martha has been talking you over to her side.”