"But pray don't imagine, my dear boy," she continued, "that I enjoy my ill health, as so many women do. On the contrary, I dislike it--dislike it so much that I have even arranged with Margaret that she is never to ask me (save when we are alone) any of those invalid questions--whether I have slept well, how my cough is, if there isn't a draught, and that sort of thing. I used to think that talking with a mother when her children were in the room, was the most trying thing, conversationally; she listens to you with one ear, but the other is listening to Johnnie; right in the midst of something very pathetic you are telling her, she will give a sudden, perfectly irrelevant smile, over her baby's last crow, and your best story is hopelessly spoiled because she loses the point (though she pretends she hasn't) while she rearranges the sashes of Ethel and Tottie (they are always rearranging them), who are going out to walk with their nurse. Still, bad as this is, I have come to the conclusion, lately, that invalid-questions are worse, because they are not confined to the hours when children are about; and so I have given Margaret my directions." "Which are to be mine too, I suppose," said Winthrop, smiling. "Mrs. Harold looks well." "Yes, Margaret always looks the same, I think. She has not that highly colored, robust appearance that some women have, but her health is absolutely perfect; it's really quite wonderful," said the aunt. She paused; then sighed. "I almost think that it has been like an armor to her," she went on. "I don't believe she feels little things as some of us do, some of us who are perhaps more sensitive; she is never nervous, never disturbed, her temper is so even that it is almost exasperating. She thinks as well of everything, for instance, in an east wind as in any other." "A great gift in some climates; but here it will have less play. Gracias air isn't easterly, it bends towards one--yields, melts." "I wish Margaret could yield--melt," said Mrs. Rutherford, with another sigh. "You see my mind still broods upon it, Evert; seeing you, my other boy, brings it all back." "I don't know, but I suppose you do, whether Lanse has made any overtures lately?" said Winthrop, after a moment of silence. "I know nothing, she is the most reticent woman living. But it would not be like him; with his pride--you know his pride--he would never speak first, never urge." "A man might speak first to his wife, I should suppose," replied Winthrop, a stern expression showing itself for a moment in his gray eyes. "It need not be urging, it might be a command." "Lanse would never do that. It would show that he cared, and--well, you know his disposition." "I used to think that I knew it; but of late years I have doubted my knowledge."