But Mr. Webb at last fell in love and married; and the lady that he selected, independently of the obligation which his marriage vows laid him under, of loving her with the greatest tenderness, was entitled to his utmost sympathy from another cause—she was even of smaller stature than himself. She suited him therefore, in every particular but two, which at the time of courtship seemed no difference at all; but which, now that they had been man and wife for two years, seemed likely to result in a very uncomfortable state of things. Mrs. Webb hated books, and she detested the thoughts of living in the country; on the contrary, Mr. Webb was a great reader, and was passionately fond of the country, and of rural occupations. “You are not very partial to the country, my dear Winny,” said he, venturing to cast a look at his wife, whose tiny fingers were plying like lightning over her work, while her cheeks were flushed with agitation, “but if you will give up this small point.” “Small point, Mr. Webb, do you call _that_ a small point which is so very disagreeable to me? Nay,” said she, laughing, “if it be such a _small_ point, why contend about it; do _you_ concede this small point to me, and when it comes to one that you consider of greater magnitude, why—exert your prerogative my dear.” Mr. Webb looked grave and sighed; the little lady, although very fond of her husband, was not disposed to yield, much as her husband’s sighs and grave looks affected her. She continued to sew very fast, without looking up for some time. At length, finding that his eyes were again dropped on his book, and that he had resumed his tranquil manner, she called his attention to the offer of a compromise. “Suppose my dear Hassy, that we both give up a little? Do _you_ give up this small point of living in the country, and I will live as frugally as I can in ever so small a house in the city, that you may purchase books and keep the horse—and—and—now my dear Hassy,” said she, drawing her chair nearer to her husband and looking up to his face—“think of the very great point lam going to give up for your small one—you shall have the naming of our little girl!” This was indeed a temptation, for Mr. Webb was of a romantic turn of mind, and considered a good name as a thing of vital importance. His own name, Ahasuerus, had been a source of much mortification to him; and that of his wife, Winifred, was equally inharmonious and distasteful. But Mrs. Webb had no romance about her; she called her husband’s horse _Mush_, because the animal happened one day to run his nose into a dishful of that article; and a fine handsome little terrier she called Scratch, although her husband had named the one Orelio and the other Bevis.