‘I want you to promise me that you will never be a Carlyle.’ ‘No, no, never.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Really and truly.’ ‘You swear it?’ ‘Yes, I do.’ ‘O Frank, you can’t think what a relief that is to me. That dear, good, helpful, little lady—it really made me cry this morning when I thought how she had been used.’ ‘How, then?’ ‘I have been reading that green-covered book of yours, and he seemed so cold and so sarcastic and so unsympathetic. He never seemed to appreciate all that she did for him. He had no thought for her. He lived in his books and never in her—such a harsh, cruel man!’ Frank went upstairs, and returned with a volume in his hand. ‘When you have finished the ‘Life,’ you must read this, dear.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘It is her letters. They were arranged for publication after her death, while her husband was still alive. You know that—’ ‘Please take it for granted, darling, that I know nothing. It is so jolly to have some one before whom it is not necessary to keep up appearances. Now, begin at the beginning and go ahead.’ She pillowed her head luxuriously against his knees. ‘There’s nothing to tell—or very little. As you say, they had their troubles in life. The lady could take particularly good care of herself, I believe. She had a tongue like a lancet when she chose to use it. He, poor chap, was all liver and nerves, porridge-poisoned in his youth. No children to take the angles off them. Half a dozen little buffer states would have kept them at peace. However, to hark back to what I was about to say, he outlived her by fifteen years or so. During that time he collected these letters, and he has annotated them. You can read those notes here, and the man who wrote those notes loved his wife and cherished her memory, if ever a man did upon earth.’ The graceful head beside his knee shook impatiently. ‘What is the use of that to the poor dead woman? Why could not he show his love by kindness and thought for her while she was alive?’ ‘I tell you, Maude, there were two sides to that. Don’t be so prejudiced! And remember that no one has ever blamed Carlyle as bitterly as he has blamed himself. I could read you bits of these notes—’ ‘Well, do.’