“Look here, Annie! I didn’t want to hurt your feelings; I didn’t think you were vain; and--and--do you know--I really--I think sometimes, when you tell us anything to make us laugh, for instance, you look prettier than you ever did. You--you look so mischievous, and your eyes sparkle so, you make one want to kiss you--only then--then, somehow, you never seem to want to be kissed--at least not by me!” he added, testily. Annie burst out laughing, a little constrainedly perhaps. “Why, whom should I want to kiss me except my husband?” said she, carelessly, as she bent over her occupation of fitting together two pieces of broken Dresden china. “I don’t know, I am sure,” said Harry, rather sulkily, feeling that his conciliatory speech had not met with the response it deserved--“George, perhaps.” “Why, surely you are not jealous of George, Harry!” she cried, laughing more naturally. “I don’t know that I’m not; but it wouldn’t make much difference to you if I was, would it?” he asked; and, as, for one moment, she did not answer, he walked, with the aid of the intervening chairs, from the one on which he was sitting to one beside her, and laid his sound arm, the right, on her shoulder. “It wouldn’t make any difference, would it?” he repeated. Annie looked up rather mischievously. “I don’t think it would, Harry.” This was a disconcerting answer to a husband. “Oh, very well!” said he, gruffly, after a minute’s pause. “Then I see what I am to expect;” and he got up to walk away with offended dignity; but, not having recovered his strength yet, and having tired and excited himself already that afternoon, he staggered before he had gone many steps, and immediately he found his wife’s arm in his. “Thank you,” said he, haughtily; then he added, with the air of a martyr, “I’m not well yet, not nearly well; I’m not strong enough to walk steadily.” “Oh, well, Harry, I’ve seen you walk just as unsteadily when you were quite well!” said Annie, dryly. Harry snatched his arm from her, and fell into the nearest chair, flushing violently. “Very well, ma’am; you call me a drunkard now! I shouldn’t have thought any woman would have the heart to make fun of a sick husband; but you don’t care for anything as long as you can laugh and scamper about the garden like a great tomboy with that infernal long-legged idiot William! You are enough to make any husband drink, just to forget you, you unfeeling little creature, you!”