That evening, in the gloaming, I was at my study window. I could look into the parlor of the Thrush home. A shadow had fallen upon that dear nest; one of the little birdies had flown away, but it was now forever sheltered from all storms in the dear Christ’s bosom, so all was well. The gentle little mother was nearly crushed at first, even more so than the father, though he felt the loss deeply; but erelong she lifted her sweet face, and smiled through her tears. And now, at the end of two weeks, she was to her husband, at least, as cheerful as ever, even more tender, and she made the home as bright as before. So many women are selfish in their grief, unwise too. They act as if their husbands were aliens, and did not share the sorrow. It is true the man usually recovers sooner than the woman from such a blow, but no one should blame him for that. His nature is different, necessarily different; not in kind, but in degree. It has to be; his is the outside battle; he must needs be rugged. But “a man’s a man for a’ that,” and the woman who shuts him out in the hour of bereavement, or who darkens the home continuously, and overcasts its good cheer, is both selfish and foolish. In such cases husband and wife are parted, instead of being brought nearer to one another, as they should be when they have a little ambassador in the court of Heaven. My heart was very tender that evening, and as I sat beside the glowing fire, before the lamps were lighted, my thoughts ran to Mrs. Purblind. The poor little woman had seemed sad of late, and I guessed, without word from her, that it was because her husband was going out so much at night. I did wish she could see some things as they really were. She sat there with me that evening—in spirit, at least, on the opposite side of the fireplace, and her mournful face touched me deeply. “He doesn’t seem to care for his home,” she said sadly. “Make him care for it. Man is a domestic animal. If he doesn’t stay at home, something is wrong.” “I do all I can,” she answered in a dull tone. “No doubt you do now,” I said; “but learn more, and then you will improve.” “I was looking over some trunks in the attic to-day, and I came across my wedding gown. It called up so much! I can’t get over it—” and she sobbed aloud. I couldn’t speak just then. The tears were too near. “Oh, when first I wore that gown, how happy I was, and how I looked forward to the future! Everything was bright then, but now it’s so changed that I’d hardly know it was the same—it isn’t the same—I’m not the same, either——” Here she broke down again. I leaned over, and laid my hand on hers. You know she wasn’t really there; the real Mrs. Purblind seldom talked over her affairs with me, but I could feel what she was suffering, none the less. “I want to tell you something, if I may,” I said. She assented in a dumb sort of fashion, and I leaned a little nearer.