When the Thornycrofts departed, and Mr. Harper returned up-stairs from bidding them good-bye, he found his wife in a thoughtful mood. “Well, dear, have you had a pleasant evening? Are you content with our plans?” “Yes--indeed, more so than I deserve. Oh, how good you are!” she whispered; and her shortcomings towards him grew into a great burden of regret. “Hush!” he answered, smiling; “we will not begin discussing one another's goodness, or you know the subject would be interminable. And I would like us to hold a little serious consultation before to-morrow. You are not sleepy?” “No.” “Stretch yourself out on the sofa, and let me sit beside you. There--are you quite comfortable?” “Ah, yes,” she said, and thought for the hundredth time how sweet it was to have some one to take care of her. “Now, my wife, listen! You seemed to long for that cottage very much, and you shall have it. Nay, you ought, because at present you are the rich lady; while I, so long as I remain in England, receive none of my salary from Montreal, and am, comparatively speaking, poor. In fact, nothing but that very secondary character, Agatha's Husband.'” Though he laughed, there was a little jarring tone in this confession; but Agatha was too simple to notice it. He continued quickly, “Nevertheless, this question is only temporary; I shall be quite your equal in Canada.” “In Canada!” she echoed dolefully. “Oh, surely--surely we need not go?” “Are you in earnest, Agatha?” “I am indeed,” said she, gathering up courage to speak to him of what ever since her marriage had been growing an inexpressible dread. “Why so?” “I--I am afraid to tell.” “Shall I tell you? You cannot bear to leave your old friends? You fear to go into a new country, entirely among strangers, with only your husband?” His suddenly suspicious tone stopped the frank denial that was bursting to his wife's lips. She only said a little hurt, “If that were true, I would have told you. I always speak exactly what I think.” “Is it so? is it indeed so?” he cried, with a lightening of countenance as sudden as its shade. “Oh, Agatha, forgive me,” and his heart seemed melting before her. “I am not good to you--but you do not quite understand me yet.” “I feel that. Yet what can I do?” “Nothing! Only wait I will try to cure myself without paining you. But, for the sake of our whole life's happiness, henceforward always be open with me, Agatha! Don't hide from me anything! Set your frank goodness against my wicked suspiciousness, and make me ashamed of myself, as now.”