"Pretty?--a hundred thousand pretties. I say there is no sight ahead of a flock of girls dressed in white, with flowers in their hair, sitting in boats that look like nests of snow. They might have been angels, Hippy, let right down out of the sky, and our Derrice was the cutest of all. Hello, there's the postman's ring. I'll go," and he rushed from the room. Mrs. White put down her knitting, and, resting one elbow on the window-sill, enjoyably inhaled the delicious perfume from her garden of roses below. "Only a newspaper for me, Hippy," said her husband coming back. "Just stop talking for a few minutes, will you?" As Mrs. White since her marriage rarely opened her mouth, this injunction was an easy one for her to obey, and she again turned her attention to the roses until her husband began to kick out his feet and to exhibit other signs of mental disquiet. "You're wondering what's the matter with me, Hippy?" he said, at last. "Yes, Micah." "I believe I'll tell you," he said; "let me look at you." Emitting light without heat, his dancing eyes played over her face. "You've nothing to hide from me, Hippy?" he said, at last. "Your heart lies bare before me, just like that," and he made some cabalistic signs on his palm. "Does it?" she replied, tranquilly, then she asked, with some anxiety, "What is worrying you, Micah?" "I'll tell you,--I'll cleave my mind open just like a herring. You'll not tell what you see inside,--will you hold my feet while I talk?" and he tentatively laid one slim ankle across her lap. "Yes, seeing you are troubled with rheumatism, I will," she said, affectionately smoothing his instep. "Stop that,--you're tickling me," he ordered, then he went on. "Hippy, are you happy?" "You know I am," she said, phlegmatically. "Do you like me better than you liked Zebedee Prymmer?" "Yes, Micah, I do." "Better than Sylvester Mercer?" She hesitated, not in any doubt of her own feelings on the subject, but from anxiety as to the propriety of answering such a question. "Do you?" he asked, peremptorily. "Sylvester is dead and gone to heaven," she remarked, with extreme amiability. "Yes,--peace to his ashes,--he'll not care. Answer me, Hippy." "Yes," she said, blushing and bridling a trifle. "I like you better than Sylvester." "Do you like me better than Justin?" She nervously leaned over and picked a hair off his coat sleeve. Surely this was a cruel question. "Do you like me better than Justin?" he repeated, tyrannically. She did, but she did not like to say so. "Go on, Hippy," he commanded. "You're dead honest now, you know." "Yes, I do," she whispered, with hanging head. "Kiss me," he said, unexpectedly.