Had Juliet been less exacting and less demonstrative in her affection, she would have made her husband a happier man. Coming home one day he found her crying, as if her heart would break. To his eager inquiries as to the cause, she replied, hysterically: "You don't love me, John, and I am the most unhappy woman in the world." "Don't love you! What has put such a notion as that in your head?" "You know you don't, John; that is enough." "But if I tell you I do?" "That is just what you never do tell me; that is what makes me so miserable." "Am I unkind to you? What have I done that you complain of?" "You don't tell me every day that you love me." "Bless me! You are not expecting me to repeat that over every day? Is not once enough for all? Did I not prove it beyond all words by marrying you?" "I never expected our honeymoon to wane. If you calculated to settle down at once into sober old married people, I did not, nor will I. I wish we had never got married, and always stayed lovers; that was ever so much nicer. Don't you say your _Ave Maria_ every day?" "I do," answered John, "or rather I used to," failing to perceive what connection this question could have with the subject. "Well, then, why do you do that? Why don't you say it once for all and have done with it, as you say of your love for me? But no, all your devotion must be given to a woman that lived thousands of years ago! You think more of her picture than of your own wife! This is what one gets by marrying a Catholic!" Juliet's temper was fast overcoming her grief. John Temple was agitated by a variety of emotions. He looked at his wife, who had re-buried her face in the sofa cushions, and thus addressed her, inaudibly: "You foolish, little simpleton! you ignorant little heretic!--destitute both of religion and common sense. Good Heavens, what a wife! Jealous of Mary, our Mother in Heaven! O, Holy Mary in Heaven, pray for her." The dinner-bell rang. "Come, Juliet," said her husband, kindly, "let us go to dinner; I am hungry as a bear." "You can go; I have no appetite, I never care to eat again as long as I live," came out dismally from the depths of the pillows. John ate a hearty dinner, when, failing to conciliate his wife, he went to his office. No sooner had the hall-door closed on him than Juliet arose out of her sackcloth and ashes, bathed her face, arranged her hair, and proceeding to the dining-room, so far forgot her intention of never eating again as to surprise the cook by her greediness. She then dressed, ordered her carriage, and was driven to her mother's. To this mother, who was a confirmed invalid, and confined to the house, Juliet poured out the exaggerated tale of her grievances. It was not enough that her husband was a Catholic; he was also heartless, stoical, unsympathizing, and unloving. Mrs. St. Leger listened silently to the end. At the conclusion she flew into a rage.