"I always thought so," I answered, warmly. And then, for the hundredth time, I fell to wondering secretly why it was that he could not get on better in life? It was hard to see humdrum men succeeding while he failed. He was so clever—so versatile—and he looked so interesting in his attitude of languid repose, his pale, delicately-cut face showing out against the dark crimson cushion, that I began to fall in love with him anew. "But," he continued, "I must give up all thought of art now-a-days, Louie, and devote myself to the City. Greystock is putting me up to some good things; and I am going every day to his office to write his letters and make myself generally useful." I was so glad to be taken into confidence again, that I resolved never to say another disparaging word of William Greystock. For a little while, at any rate, I would banish the remembrance of unpaid weekly bills, and all the anxieties of everyday life; and I would bask once more in the warmth of that love which had shed its glow over my world in days gone by. "Ah, Ronald, I wish we had nothing to do but enjoy ourselves in this summer-time!" I said, going to the sofa and kneeling down by his side. "I wish we could ramble under the trees and among the buttercups, as if we were children. Do you recollect a day we spent at Richmond in May? There was a great lilac bush in the hotel garden, and I buried my face in a mass of bloom, and half-intoxicated myself with perfume! Dear, I felt as if my heart was not large enough to hold its happiness! The flowers—the fragrance—the sunshine-and—you!" "My poor child," he answered, drawing me close to his breast, "the sunshine did not last very long. You have only one or two poor little holidays to look back upon;—only a few golden hours snatched from a life of care! But perhaps there are brighter times coming, pet; and you shall take your fill of the flowers again." But as I knelt there in his arms with his face close to mine, I felt I could live without the flowers. We were only a poor young couple, clinging to each other in a dim London room; but just then our lives were full of sweeter poetry than can ever be put into words. Other couples, more fortunate in their surroundings, were drinking in the sweetness of the scented twilight in country places far away. "Some wandering hand in hand through arching lanes; Some listening for loved voices at the lattice; Some steeped in dainty dreams of untried bliss." Yet I hardly think that any of them could be happier than we were in these quiet moments, when we seemed to have but one heart between us. It was true that my life was full of care; true that I had given up my untroubled girlhood for a troubled wifehood. But does any true woman ever love a man less because she has sacrificed all her best years for his sake? Does not the very fact of the sacrifice endear him for whom it was made?