Loving and admiring his wife from the full depths of a quiet heart, he held all this back. Susie was vivacious, ready of wit and speech, and he was not. She dearly enjoyed excitement and new acquaintances. Give him dressing jacket, slippers, and an interesting book, or his wife’s music and his own fireside, and he would not have exchanged places with Ward Macallister at his complacent best. Susie would shine anywhere; she was born to it! He was not even a first-class reflector of her rays. Yet this noblest of women had stood by him with cheerful gallantry in their less prosperous days. He had told her over and over that she had hidden her light under a bushel in becoming the mistress of such a home as he had to give her, but she had loyally denied this, and borne her part bravely in the struggle to lap the non-elastic ends of their common income. To her capital management he owed much of their present comfort. Arthur Cornell reasoned slowly, but always in a straight line. “I am a selfish, brutal fellow, darling,” he said at this point of his cogitations. “I am afraid I am a little tired to-night. We have had a busy day at the Bank. You mustn’t mind my growls. When we have had sup—dinner, I would say!—you’ll find me more than willing to listen and sympathize.” Her satisfactory answer was to come over and kiss him silently, taking his head between her hands and laying her cheek upon it. The hair was getting thin on the top, and the gaslight brought into gleaming conspicuousness a few gray hairs. He was older than she by nine years. It would not be surprising if, for a long time yet, he continued to say “supper” instead of “dinner.” She was certain he would never learn to talk of the “drawing room.” But he was her very own, and dearly beloved, and the kindest, noblest fellow in the world. Whatever he might do or say, she could never be angry with or ashamed of him. PART II. THE evening meal—an excellent one, to which Mr. Cornell did ample justice—was over. Father and mother, as was their custom, had visited the nursery in company, heard the children’s prayers, and kissed them “good-night.” The orderly household had settled down into cheerful quiet that fell like dew upon weary nerves. Susie went to the piano presently and played a pensive _nocturne_, then sang softly a couple of Arthur’s favorite ballads. The night was blustering, and in the silence succeeding the music, the wedded pair, seated before the soft-coal fire in the back parlor, heard the hurrying tread of passers-by echoing sharply from the frozen stones. Arthur ended the restful pause. His choice of a theme and the lightness of his tone were heroic. “Low neck and short sleeves for me to-morrow night, I suppose, old lady? That is to say, claw-hammer, and low-cut vest. It’s lucky I had them made for Lou Wilson’s wedding last winter. There wouldn’t be time to get up the proper rig, and regrets based upon ‘No dress-coat’ would be rather awkward.”