“No; the two we looked at would not do,” said Agatha, determinedly. She guessed what was coming--that the discussion about Wilson's cottage, which Nathanael seemed so to have set his heart upon, was about to be renewed. But she would never consent to that--never! “The house I liked you did not approve of,” she continued, observing her husband's silence. “The other I could not think of for a moment.” “But supposing there was no alternative, since we must settle at once?” “This is the first time you have condescended to inform me of that necessity.” “If,” he went on, taking no notice of her sharp speech, but speaking with the extreme gentleness of one who himself feels tenfold the pain he is compelled to inflict--“if, as I told you yesterday, we ought to form our plans immediately; and since, Kingcombe being such a small place, there is at present no choice left us but those two houses”-- “Build one! We are rich enough.” “Not quite.” His eyes dropped, almost like those of guilt. After a pause, he cried out violently: “Agatha, a secret at one's heart is ten times worse to the keeper of it than it can be to any one else. Have pity for me, have patience with me, just for a little while.” “What are you talking about? What have you done?” “Nothing,” said he. “Nothing to harm your peace, my little wife. Believe me, I have committed no greater crime, than”-- “Well!” “Than having taken Wilson's cottage.” He tried by smiling to teach her to make light of it--perhaps because it was a thing so light to him. But Agatha was enraged beyond endurance. “You have absolutely taken it--that mean, wretched hovel that I told you I hated;--taken it secretly, without my knowledge or consent!” “You mistake there. I told you we were obliged to decide yesterday; you were unwilling to consult with me, and at last--do you remember? you left the decision in my hands. I merely believed your own words, and knowing the necessity of acting upon them, did so. I cannot think I was wrong.” “Oh, no! Not at all!” cried Agatha, laughing wildly. “It was only like you--under-handed in stealing my few pleasures--very frank and open when you can rule. Never honest or candid with me, except to my punishment. A kind, generous husband, truly!” These and a torrent more of bitter words she poured out. She never knew till now the passion, the galling sarcasm, there was in her nature. She felt a longing to hate--a wish to wound. Every time she looked at her husband, there seemed a demon rising up within her--that demon which lurks strangely enough in the heart's closest and tenderest depths. “Cannot you speak!” she cried, going up to him. “Anything is better than that wicked silence. Speak!” “Agatha!” “No--I'll not hear you. See what you have done--how you have made me disgrace myself” and she almost sobbed.--“Never in my life was I in a passion before.” “Is it my fault then?” said he, mournfully.