One bright afternoon, just as I returned from a long walk, Mrs. Purblind ran over to see me, and soon afterward, Mrs. Cynic dropped in. I never could bear this latter woman; something malevolent seems to emanate from her; something that is more or less unhealthful to the moral nature of all who come in contact with it, just as the miasma from a swamp is poisonous to the physical being. It chanced that I had just finished writing a little story, drawn from the life-page of my domestic experience; it was so endeared to my memory that I was not like to forget it, and yet, in the course of years, its outlines would probably fade a trifle if I did not take care to preserve their distinctness; for that reason I had written it out. I ought to have had better sense than to read anything of this kind to Mrs. Cynic. In the presence of such people, that which is fresh, beautiful, and holy withers, as a cluster of dewy wild flowers is parched and killed by the hot, sterile breath of a furnace. Usually I have some judgment in such matters, but that day all discretion seemed to take wings. A remark of Mrs. Purblind’s led up to the subject. This little woman can say ugly things at times, but they are stung out of her, as it were, by some particular hurt, and are not the expression of her real nature. She has a kind, good heart, though her judgment and tact are somewhat lacking. We happened to be speaking of men, and something was said about their capacity for devotion, when Mrs. Purblind exclaimed: “Devotion! the masculine nature doesn’t know the meaning of the word, unless it is devotion to self.” “I must read you a little story I’ve written to-day. It’s a true one, remember—I think I shall call it, ‘Devotion’.” I went to my desk, took out the manuscript, and read as follows: