The intelligence of Arthur's conversion was an unlooked-for and refreshing element in her week's felicity. "Now, Charley, one thing more!" she said, when they were talking it over. She seldom made a pointed appeal, although he always took it kindly. He did not reflect her smile--he only said, gravely;--"You cannot desire it more than I do, Ida." Invigorated in soul and body, and with a bounteous store of loving memories heaped up for the time of famine, she sought her uncongenial home. "Ah, well! it's allers been my experience that molasses and water is mighty apt to sour, if it's kept; and it don't deceive me now," remarked the oracular Rachel, with the decline of the honeymoon. The metaphor was apt. Mr. Read's fondness was the saccharine that qualified the insipidity of his wife's apathy. He had been elevated to the seventh heaven of ecstacy, at his triumph over a host of rivals, younger than himself. Her evident preference had incited him to the contest, and he had no misgivings of its reality. She was "a splendid woman!" He delighted in exhibiting her; and hearing this from all sides, with compliments and congratulations to himself. But this renewal of youth was evanescent. He had counted more than half a century--she, not a quarter; and outraged nature revenged herself for his infatuation in striving to overleap this mighty gap. She was a "splendid woman!" that was unquestionable; but as he mounted guard, from ten at night to two or three o'clock in the morning against the wall of the assembly-room, waiting for her to despatch the list of partners that covered both sides of her tablets--he tired and moped, and stupidly wondering if the radiant creature, whose laugh came to him with each whirl of the interminable waltz, were in truth married, and _his_ wife! it _is_ problematical if he derived permanent consolation from the well-timed praises of his old friends, who facetiously inquired if he were not "jealous of his pretty bird"--or felt greatly flattered by the fine things, comparative strangers were saying about "his daughter." She _was_ a "splendid woman!" and she shone most at the largest party of the winter, where everybody danced (she most sylph-like of all) except the papas and mammas, and the "past-worthy" chaperons. The rooms were hot:--the dancers must have air--the windows were robbed of their sashes. Mr. Read was in a draught--what of that? the reflection of his wife's splendor should have warmed him. _She_ was not uncomfortable;--so she glided and pirouetted and swam by in the polka, and he shook as if he were afflicted with a dance of quite another name. An attack of inflammatory rheumatism was the finale. His life was in danger for awhile; and to his wife's credit, be it said, she nursed him dutifully, if not affectionately, until he entered upon his convalescence. A few mornings after the doctors announced his safety, Ida observed, at breakfast, that Mrs. Read was looking badly.