As for myself, I opened my eyes to twice their usual size, and pulled my long bonnet over them, to hide my wonder. While we were admiring Josy’s beautiful poultry, her husband came running toward us, and I dreaded some other muddy discovery; but it was to bid us good morning, and kiss his wife before he drove off to the city. As I remarked his sincere look of affection when he pressed his lips to her blooming cheek, I could not help sighing as I remembered how grieved she was at his reproach, “you take no interest in your domestic affairs.” He might speak kindly now, but he had spoiled her pleasure for the hour, and seemed to feel no extra gratitude for her perfect freedom from every thing like resentment. Her smile was so sweet and winning, that I felt like reminding him how little he deserved it, after his _bêtises_. She left us to get a basket for the eggs that were scattered in great profusion about the nice nests ranged along the side of the coop; and where the cackling and clucking of a hundred hens was a safe preventive against overhearing, I exclaimed to my companion, “Isabel! what sort of a _lusus naturæ_ is your Cousin Edwin? If it would not be considered offensive, I should offer him a petticoat, and make one long enough to cover his pantaloons and boots.” “And he would do honor to it, Ellen,” was the reply. “This Miss Molly-mania of Edwin’s is the one spot that has risen on Josephine’s otherwise happy union. She is the loveliest woman I ever knew, so sweet and patient; and I feel so provoked at her husband that I often am afraid to do mischief by interfering. But I cannot help it! As ridiculous as it is—as it helps to make him—we cannot laugh at it, because it is an evil—a source of serious unhappiness in any household. And Josy bears it so nobly! And never smiles when at times I cannot contain my amusement even before him. I am afraid he is incurable, for if he is not content with her neatness and order, an angel’s efforts could not please him. I wish you would think of some cure for his disease.” “I’d put a cap on him, and make him mend his own stockings,” said I, with more indignation than dignity; but Josephine was at the gate, and after filling the basket with what New Orleans calls creole eggs, a fortune to the one who could have taken them to St. Mary’s Market, we returned to the house and spent a pleasant morning together.