I turned and shook my head at him, pointing to the parlor. He started, and thrusting his burdens into my hand ran down the steps, saying “don’t betray me, Ellen, the week is almost out.” I replaced the things silently, and returned to my companions. They were just congratulating themselves upon Edwin’s forbearance until then. “We shall see, what we shall see,” thought I, taking up some muslin, and busying myself with a beautiful painting on copper, destined to ornament Josephine’s pretty little sewing-room. Her husband took such pains to beautify this chosen “sanctum” of hers that I could almost have prayed for his triumph over this one fault—yet no sin. It seemed hard that for a failing of this peculiar nature, Mr. Bettyman should be looked upon generally as an unkind husband, when in all other respects he was so considerate for the comfort and happiness of his wife. Yet, so it was, and knowing this “general” opinion, his kind cousin determined to cure him of its cause. Saturday came, and we all breathed freely—if this one day were but over. Edwin jested with his wife upon her being obliged to retain her basket of keys “nolens volens,” for he contended that it was but a ruse to get rid of the trouble of looking and unlocking after all. He felt sure of his triumph now, for “of course I shall not forget myself within these few hours.” “_Tant mieux_,” said Josephine, and rattling a bunch of keys at his ears she bade him begone, “lest,” added she, “the spell be broken at sight of some old duster lying loose, or a cracked pitcher with no handle.” “Ay, do begone,” continued Isabel declaimingly, “for as ‘Heat and cold, and wind, and _steam_, Moisture and _mildew_, mice, worms and swarming flies, Minute as dust and numberless, oft work Dire _meddling habits_ that admit no cure And which no care can obviate’— we fear to trust you in our presence longer.” “Abominable parody,” cried Mr. Bettyman, laughing. “I doubt if Cowper were ever before so applied. But good-bye, signorinas, _que beso las manos_.” He returned home in rare good-humor, even for him; as, though cheerful, he was never in very high spirits. But the foreign and _domestic_ state of affairs was encouraging—cotton was up, and “the day” nearly over. He challenged us to a walk, and through fields and flowers we wandered joyously until the bright lady moon was looking down in all her beauty, and shedding silver light over land and sea. We reached home as pleased as wanderers could be, each remembering some distant dream in days gone by, that came back to us with the scene and hour. All love to see, The moonbeam sliding softly in between The sleeping leaves,