Some time after this I was called away and remained absent for several months. On my return, I found Isabel Stewart an inmate of her Cousin Edwin’s house, having lost her only near relative, an old uncle, during my absence. As we had been dear friends from early childhood, I gladly accepted an invitation to spend a portion of my time with her, and drove out “armes et baggage” to the pretty residence of my hero and his lovely wife, too willing to escape from the thraldom of a hotel life. Isabel was paler and thinner, and threw herself without speaking into my arms. Josephine was as pretty as ever, as cordial and hospitable as hostess could be. But she had lost that catching gayety that so enchanted me at the time of her marriage, and seemed to grow timid as her husband’s step was heard upon the gravel-walk. “How do you do, my dear Miss Ellen?” said he, taking my hand and shaking it heartily. “I am glad to see you once more. Have you had lunch yet? No. Josephine, my love, how could you neglect your guest?” “I this moment arrived,” said I, smiling and seating myself. “Do let us take breath before you send Josy off to the pantry. Knowing her boast of housekeeping accomplishments, I am sure of a grand lunch by and bye.” She smiled and answered cheerfully, “Oh, you must not remember what a braggart I was, Ellen. Edwin is not at all pleased with my housekeeping, and pretends that I know nothing about it. But it _is_ time to get something to refresh you after your drive, so excuse me, I leave you with Isabel—and you want no better companion.” “No better, indeed,” said I, drawing her closer to me as Josephine left the apartment. “Now do tell me, dear Isabel, all about yourself, for you have not written me very explicitly since your change of residence. Are you happy here?” And receiving an answer in the affirmative, we talked, like two egotists, of nothing but ourselves until summoned to the dining-room. Mr. Bettyman seemed to me a _fussy_ man—(dear reader, you _must_ understand the term.) He got up and unlocked the sideboard, looked very mysterious as he examined the decanters, took one out, relocked the door, and returned to his seat. The wine-glasses were as usual at each place. Taking mine, he was about to fill it when something attracted his attention, and he tittered an exclamation of tragical amazement. “Is it possible! Cracked already! Not eight months since we came here and another glass ruined. Two wine-glasses cracked—I cannot say how may tumblers broken—” “Only one, Edwin,” said his wife, blushing slightly as she glanced at me. “And that, you know, cracked from the ice with which it was filled.”