I should warn the reader here that this was before the “shawl” or “skirt” dancing was in vogue, and I am afraid that pretty Mrs. Rylands's performances would now be voted slow. Her silk skirt and frilled petticoat were lifted just over her small ankles and tiny bronze-kid shoes. In the course of a pirouette or two, there was a slight further revelation of blue silk stockings and some delicate embroidery, but really nothing more than may be seen in the sweep of a modern waltz. Suddenly the music ceased. Mr. Rylands had left the harmonium and walked over to the hearth. Mrs. Rylands stopped, and came towards him with a flushed, anxious face. “It don't seem to go right, does it?” she said, with her nervous laugh. “I suppose I'm getting too old now, and I don't quite remember it.” “Better forget it altogether,” he replied gravely. He stopped at seeing a singular change in her face, and added awkwardly, “When I told you I didn't want you to be ashamed of your past, nor to try to forget what you were, I didn't mean such things as that!” “What did you mean?” she said timidly. The truth was that Mr. Rylands did not know. He had known this sort of thing only in the abstract. He had never had the least acquaintance with the class to which his wife had belonged, nor known anything of their methods. It was a revelation to him now, in the woman he loved, and who was his wife. He was not shocked so much as he was frightened. “You shall have the dress to-morrow, Ellen,” he said gently, “and you can put away these gewgaws. You don't need to look like Tinkie Clifford.” He did not see the look of triumph that lit up her eye, but added, “Go on and play.” She sat down obediently to the instrument. He watched her for a few moments from the toe of her kid slipper on the pedals to the swell of her shoulders above the keyboard, with a strange, abstracted face. Presently she stopped and came over to him. “And when I've got these nice calico frocks, and you can't tell me from Jane, and I'm a good housekeeper, and settle down to be a farmer's wife, maybe I'll have a secret to tell you.” “A secret?” he repeated gravely. “Why not now?” Her face was quite aglow with excitement and a certain timid mischief as she laughed: “Not while you are so solemn. It can wait.” He looked at his watch. “I must give some orders to Jim about the stock before he turns in,” he said. “He's gone to the stables already,” said Mrs. Rylands. “No matter; I can go there and find him.” “Shall I bring your boots?” she said quickly. “I'll put them on when I pass through the kitchen. I won't be long away. Now go to bed. You are looking tired,” he said gently, as he gazed at the drawn lines about her eyes and mouth. Her former pretty color struck him also as having changed of late, and as being irregular and inharmonious.