"And their invincible obstinacy," returned Charley. "That is not just the word--it is a certain never-give-up-able-ness, vexatiously delightful, which precipitates one into a rage and love, at the same time--he is divided between his disposition to kneel to, and to shoot her!" "Are you tempted to murder me?" inquired Ida. "Not at all. It is a peculiarity in the female disposition,--she can't help it--to cry 'scissors' to the last." "I do not comprehend." "Did you never hear the 'tailor's wife and scissors?'" "A story of your own coinage!" asked Lynn. "No--an authentic narrative. A tailor having amassed a fortune by his trade, cut the shop and removed to the country, to live in dignified leisure. His wife was a bit of a shrew, and apt, as all wives are,--to find out her husband's weak points. One of these was a shame of his former occupation, and she harped upon the jarring string, until the poor wretch was nearly beside himself. Her touch-word, 'scissors,' spoiled his finest bon mots, and embittered his grandest entertainment--it was flame to tow. He stormed and wheedled, threatened and bribed; the obnoxious instrument was constantly brandished before his eyes. They were walking, one day, on the bank of a river, bounding his grounds,--'I have displayed extraordinary taste in the selection of this estate,' remarked he, 'Its owner should have judgment, as well as wealth. You observe the Delta formed by the fork of the river. Its beauty decided me to close the contract.' "Very probable, my dear,--it reminds one so much of an open pair of scissors!' "One push--and she was struggling in the water. "'I will pull you out, if you promise never to say that word again!' halloed the still foaming husband. "'Scissors!' screeched she, and down she went. "'Scissors!' as she arose again. The third time, she came to the surface, too far gone to speak--but as the waters closed over her, she threw up her arms, crossing her fore fingers--thus--and disappeared." Ida laughed--her rich, musical laugh, which awoke strange echoes in those formal rooms. Mr. Read's portrait frowned down from its niche, and Josephine raised her brows with an air of astonishment, which would have been contempt, had she not been upon the amiable at the time. Another started too, but with a different expression. Few who saw Morton Lacy smile, forgot it. It was not a superficial illumination, but a flashing through of an inward light, as might play upon the surface of a gem-bedded stream, could the sun strike upon its concealed wealth. "We seldom hear a sound like that, in this age of affectation;" said he, to Josephine.