“Yes,” said Bertha, with a smile that was almost ecstatic; then after a little pause: “We had a very good time--we went to all the theatres.” Miss Glover felt that marriage had caused a difference in Bertha, and it made her nervous to realise the change. She looked uneasily at the married woman and occasionally blushed. “And are you really happy?” she blurted out suddenly. Bertha smiled, and reddening, looked more charming than ever. “Yes--I think I’m perfectly happy.” “Aren’t you sure?” asked Miss Glover, who cultivated precision in every part of life and strongly disapproved of persons who did not know their own minds. Bertha looked at her for a moment, as if considering the question. “You know,” she answered, at last, “happiness is never quite what one expected it to be. I hardly hoped for so much; but I didn’t imagine it quite like it is.” “Ah, well, I think it’s better not to go into these things,” replied Miss Glover, a little severely, thinking the suggestion of analysis scarcely suitable in a young married woman. “We ought to take things as they are, and be thankful.” “Ought we?” said Bertha lightly, “I never do.... I’m never satisfied with what I have.” They heard the opening of the front door and Bertha jumped up. “There’s Edward! I must go and see him. You don’t mind, do you?” She almost skipped out of the room; marriage, curiously enough, had dissipated the gravity of manner which had made people find so little girlishness about her. She seemed younger, lighter of heart. “What a funny creature she is!” thought Miss Glover. “When she was a girl she had all the ways of a married woman, and now that she’s really married she might be a schoolgirl.” The parson’s sister was not certain whether the irresponsibility of Bertha was fit to her responsible position, whether her unusual bursts of laughter were proper to a mystic state demanding gravity. “I hope she’ll turn out all right,” she sighed. But Bertha impulsively rushed to her husband and kissed him. She helped him off with his coat. “I’m so glad to see you again,” she cried, laughing a little at her own eagerness; for it was only after luncheon that he had left her. “Is any one here?” he asked, noticing Miss Glover’s umbrella. He returned his wife’s embrace somewhat mechanically. “Come and see,” said Bertha, taking his arm and dragging him along. “You must be dying for tea, you poor thing.” “Miss Glover!” he said, shaking the lady’s hand as energetically as she shook his. “How good of you to come and see us. I _am_ glad to see you. You see we came home sooner than we expected--there’s no place like the country, is there?” “You’re right there, Mr. Craddock; I can’t bear London.” “Oh, you don’t know it,” said Bertha; “for you it’s Aerated Bread shops, Exeter Hall, and Church Congresses.” “Bertha!” cried Edward, in a tone of surprise; he could not understand frivolity with Miss Glover.