Mrs. Wilson put down her glass of milk and looked curiously at the speaker. She began to comprehend the cause of her strange looks and words. She said to herself: "This pretty little girl-bride has grown jealous of some meaningless attention of Eliot to Miss Hayes. She loves her husband, and the boy is somehow too stupid to see it, or, perhaps, he does not care. I would speak to him, but I do not like to meddle in so delicate an affair." Aloud, she said gently: "I like to have you up here with me, but your husband and friends will think I am selfish, dear; so you had better go back to the drawing-room. Miss Ida Hayes is not charming enough to make up to Eliot for your absence." Una turned around suddenly and looked at her gravely. "Very well, then; I will go, since you don't want me; but I shall go to my own room," she said. And she did, and there Edith found her, pretending to read, when she came to seek her half an hour later. "You selfish child! put down your book. We are going to have some music, and we want your alto," she said. "I can not sing to-night; my head aches," Una answered; and none of Edith's arguments could alter her refusal. She was obliged to go down alone and make excuses for her sister-in-law. "She has a headache, and can not come down," she said; and Sylvie laughed in her sleeve. "She is jealous of Ida," she thought, maliciously. CHAPTER XXXII. The rest of the family were already assembled at breakfast when Una entered the dining room the next morning, pale and grave-looking, after a wretched, sleepless night. Her place by Eliot was waiting for her, although she had half expected it would be filled by Ida Hayes. Eliot had been watching for her anxiously, and his glance was very tender, despite the episode of last night. "I hope your head is better," he said, kindly; and looking at him with a smile of wonderful sweetness, she answered: "It is well, thank you." In the long vigil of last night she had formed a noble resolve to win her husband's heart, and to make up to him by her womanly sweetness for all he had sacrificed in marrying her, a nameless girl of obscure birth. Sylvie's hints had not been lost upon her. She determined that she would not allow Eliot to be so extravagant for her sake again. The brown pony must be sold, the hot-house flowers must not be bought. She would have no more new dresses. She would not be a burden on him she loved. "Chocolate, Una?" asked Mrs. Van Zandt, who was presiding at the silver urn with graceful ease. She filled the china cup for the girl, laughing the while in secret at her pale, wistful face. "It was a hard blow to her pride," she said to herself, exultantly; then she turned her attention again to her husband, who had been reading from the morning paper when Una's entrance interrupted him. "Our old favorite on the boards again. It will be a treat," said Sylvie. "On what night did you say, Bryant?"