"Do not set your wish against _His_ will," returned Mrs. Worboise, with a hopeless reproof in her tone, implying that it was of no use to say so, but she must bear her testimony notwithstanding. "Oh! no, no," returned her husband; "nothing of the sort. Nothing further from my intention. But what is to be done about this affair? You know it would please you as well as me to see him married to Mary Boxall. She's a good girl, that you know." "If I were sure that she was a changed character, there is nothing I should like better, I confess--that is, of worldly interest." "Come, come, Mrs. Worboise. I don't think you're quite fair to the girl." "What _do_ you mean, Mr. Worboise?" "I mean that just now you seemed in considerable doubt whether or not your son was a changed character, as you call it. And yet you say that if Mary Boxall were a changed character, you would not wish anything more--that is, of worldly interest--than to see him married to Mary Boxall. Is that fair to Mary Boxall? I put the question merely." "There would be the more hope for him; for the Scripture says that the believing wife may save her husband." Mr. Worboise winked inwardly to himself. Because his wife's religion was selfish, and therefore irreligious, therefore, religion was a humbug, and _therefore_ his conduct might be as selfish as ever he chose to make it. "But how about Mary? Why should you wish her, if she was a changed character, to lose her advantage by marrying one who is not so?" "She might change him, Mr. Worboise, as I have said already," returned the lady, decisively; "for she might speak with authority to one who knew nothing about these things." "Yes. But if Thomas were changed, and Mary not--what then?" Mrs. Worboise murmured something not quite audible about "I and the children whom God hath given me." "At the expense of the children he hasn't given you!" said Mr. Worboise, at a venture; and chuckled now, for he saw his victory in her face. But Mr. Worboise's chuckle always made Mrs. Worboise _shut up_, and not another word could he get out of her that evening. She never took refuge in her illness, but in an absolute dogged silence, which she persuaded herself that she was suffering for the truth's sake.