“Alice, you are changed,” exclaimed Arthur, as the door closed on her whom he had once so deeply loved, towards whom he now felt as we can only feel towards those whom we have admitted into the inmost recesses of the heart, and who have availed themselves of the privilege to profane and make desolate the sanctuary, “you were a girl, you have become a woman; has matrimony produced the alteration?” “Yes, I suppose so,” was the rejoinder. “You know one can’t remain a child always; the realities of life are sure to find one out sooner or later, and I was a mere baby in the ways of the world when I married.” There was a spice of regret in the tone of this remark, which did not escape Arthur’s quick ear and keen intelligence, and he hastened to reply-- “You mean more than you say; why, surely, Alice, with such a husband you must be perfectly happy; it is impossible that it can be otherwise.” As he spoke, he fixed his dark eyes questioningly upon her. Unable fairly to meet his gaze, Alice turned away her head, as she replied, with an effort at careless gaiety-- “Don’t alarm yourself, most romantic of barristers; there is no Bluebeard’s closet at Coverdale, nor does Harry turn into a skeleton, or anything else but his bed, at twelve o’clock at night. He is just the thoroughly good fellow (that is the term you men delight in) he always was, and devoted to---- “His wife!” interrupted Arthur. “Well, I was going to say dogs, guns, and horses,” returned Alice; “and I’m afraid I must adhere to my text, unless you prefer fiction to fact.” She spoke jestingly; but the lines which care, and thought, and intellectual exertion had already traced on Arthur’s brow deepened, as, after a pause, he murmured, half in reply to Alice, half in soliloquy-- “I am disappointed, deeply disappointed; it ought to be so different! I--I wish I were not going abroad to-morrow; and yet I _could_ not be a frequent visitor in this house!” The last words were inaudible, though, by one of those intuitions which often compensate for the inefficiency of our physical powers, Alice divined his train of reasoning, and with subtle generalship diverted the attack, by carrying the war into the enemy’s country, as she replied-- “Do not puzzle your brains about me and Harry; we jog on very serenely together, now we have found out each other’s peculiarities.” “But you never _had_ any peculiarities, either of you,” interrupted Arthur, positively; “except that Harry was the finest, noblest, manliest fellow going, and you were a good, simple-hearted, sweet-tempered little girl. What do you mean by peculiarities?” “Never mind us,” continued Alice, not heeding his interruption; “I want to know something about you. You say I have changed from a child into a woman, but you have turned from a young man into a middle-aged one during these last six months; you are either ill or unhappy, or working yourself to death--all three, perhaps.”