“Did you ever use to be afraid--Or, no! Wait! I'll _tell_ you first, and then I'll _ask_ you. I'm not ashamed of it now, though once I thought I couldn't bear to have any one find it out. I used to be awfully afraid you didn't care for me! I would try to make out, from things you did and said, whether you did or not; but I never could be certain. I believe I used to find the most comfort in discouraging myself. I used to say to myself, 'Why, of course he doesn't! How can he? He's been everywhere, and he's seen so many girls. He corresponds with lots of them. Altogether likely he's engaged to some of the young ladies he's met in Boston; and he just goes with me here for a blind.' And then when you would praise me, sometimes, I would just say, 'Oh, he's complimented plenty of girls. I know he's thinking this instant of the young lady he's engaged to in Boston.' And it would almost kill me; and when you did some little thing to show that you liked me, I would think, 'He doesn't like me! He hates, he despises me. He does, he does, he does!' And I would go on that way, with my teeth shut, and my breath held, I don't know _how_ long.” Bartley broke out into a broad laugh at this image of desperation, but she added, tenderly, “I hope I never made you suffer in that way?” “What way?” he asked. “That's what I wanted you to tell me. Did you ever--did you use to be afraid sometimes that I--that you--did you put off telling me that you cared for me so long because you thought, you dreaded--Oh, I don't see what I can ever do to make it up to you if you did! Were you afraid I didn't care for you?” “No!” shouted Bartley. She had risen and stood before him in the fervor of her entreaty, and he seized her arms, pinioning them to her side, and holding her helpless, while he laughed, and laughed again. “I knew you were dead in love with me from the first moment.” “Bartley! Bartley Hubbard!” she exclaimed; “let me go,--let me go, this instant! I never heard of such a shameless thing!” But she really made no effort to escape. V. The house seemed too little for Marcia's happiness, and after dinner she did not let Bartley forget his last night's engagement. She sent him off to get his horse at the hotel, and ran up to her room to put on her wraps for the drive. Her mother cleared away the dinner things; she pushed the table to the side of the room, and then sat down in her feather-cushioned chair and waited her husband's pleasure to speak. He ordinarily rose from the Sunday dinner and went back to his office; to-day he had taken a chair before the stove. But he had mechanically put his hat on, and he wore it pushed off his forehead as he tilted his chair back on its hind legs, and braced himself against the hearth of the stove with his feet.