Ronald was busily engaged in writing. Dora, flushed and worn, was vainly trying to stop the cries of one child, while the other pulled at her dress. The anxious, dreary face struck Valentine with pain. She laid the parcel of toys down, and shook hands with Ronald, who looked somewhat ashamed of the aspect of affairs. Then, turning to Dora, she took the child from her arms, and little Beatrice, looking at her with wondering eyes, forgot to cry. "You are not strong enough, Dora, to nurse this heavy child," said Miss Charteris. "Why do you not find some one to help you?" "We can not afford it," said Ronald, gloomily. "We spend too much in gloves and horses," added Dora, bitterly; but no sooner were the words spoken than she would have given the world to recall them. Ronald made no reply, and Valentine, anxious to avert the storm she had unwittingly raised, drew attention to the toys. When Valentine left them, Dora and Ronald had their first quarrel long and bitter. He could ill brook the insult her words implied--spoken before Valentine, too!--and she for the first time showed him how an undisciplined, untrained nature can throw off the restraint of good manners and good breeding. It was a quarrel never to be forgotten, when Ronald in the height of his rage wished that he had never seen Dora, and she re-echoed the wish. When such a quarrel takes place between man and wife, the bloom and freshness are gone from love. They may be reconciled, but they will never again be to each other what they once were. A strong barrier is broken down, and nothing can be put in its place. Chapter XIII The angry, passionate words spoken by Ronald--almost the first he had ever uttered--soon faded from his mind, but they rankled like poisoned arrows in Dora's heart. She believed them. Before evening her husband repented of his anger, and called himself a coward for having scolded Dora. He went up to her and raised her face to his. "Little wife," He said, "we have both been wrong. I am very sorry--let us make friends." There was just a suspicion of sullenness in Dora's nature, and it showed itself in full force now. "It is no matter," she replied, coolly; "I knew long ago that you were tired of me." Ronald would not answer, lest they should quarrel again, but he thought to himself that perhaps she was not far wrong. From that day the breach between them widened. In after years Dora saw how much she was to blame. She understood then how distasteful her quiet, sullen reserve must have been to a high-bred, fastidious man like Ronald. She did not see it then, but nursed in her heart imaginary wrongs and injuries; and, above all, she yielded to a wild, fierce jealousy of Valentine Charteris.