Mildred Thatcher could never help a mysteriously hurt feeling when her Nevin spent his money for books, or indeed for anything apart from her, of his own volition; there were always so many things needed perennially by “the house,” not to speak of her own wardrobe. Her feminine mind was incapacitated by nature from seeing anything from a man’s point of view—it was from the sheer force of her love alone that she leapt the chasm between them. It was from the heart, not the mind, that she divined what she did of him, as the blind see through feeling finger-tips. And even when she could not perceive how he wanted his own way—nay, when she had protested against it with intensity—after she had once proved herself in the right, she was apt to be overtaken by a sweet, fiercely unreasoning desire that he should have everything he wanted, just because he wanted it, and because he would love her better if he did, and she would grovel, and cringe, and eat her words unblushingly, in her efforts to drive him back into his own path. If she used all her energy now to making him send that wealth of literature back where it came from, she would probably labour still harder the next day to make him get it again. There was an aloofness in her greeting, when he came home a little earlier than usual, which he was unusually quick to detect. His eyes were agreeably expectant, with none of the deprecation in them which she had looked for. Mr. Thatcher himself was one of Mildred’s inconsistencies. She had sworn that she would never marry any but a very tall man, yet her Nevin, stalwart and broad-shouldered as he was, did not top the highest roll of her dark hair. “What’s the matter?” His hand lingered on her shoulder. “Don’t you feel well?” “Oh, yes—pretty well.” “Did you get the package I sent by express?” “Yes; what to do with all those volumes I do not know. It is so inconsiderate of you when——” “Oh, I didn’t mean the books—and I stopped at the carpenter’s; he is going to make shelves for them. But I meant the other package.” “There wasn’t any other package.” “Yes, there was”—his arm was still half around her. “I sent you—why here’s the expressman now. Hi! This is the place; yes, bring it here.” He came back again to his wife. “There was a little debt paid me yesterday. After I got the books, I thought I’d buy a present for you.” He pressed her shoulder gently. “Oh!” “Something you’ve been wanting a long time, something you’ll like. It’s the large rug for the parlour.” “The rug—Nevin, you _didn’t_ get a rug without _me_?” “You’ll find it’s all right when you see it. Stand off a moment”—he was disposing of the knotted cords with sharp clicks of his penknife. “I’ll spread it out for you. There—what do you think of that?” “What did you pay for it?” asked Mrs. Thatcher in an odd voice.