“Elizabeth,” said Pelham, after a pause, “I think you are all in all the best wife I ever knew.” “Why shouldn’t I be a good wife—haven’t I the best husband in the world? Jack often reminds me of my father, who has just such an open, frank, simple nature as Jack’s,—one of those natures which nobody fears and yet of which everybody is a little afraid.” “That is true,” replied Pelham. “Jack as a little fellow was the straightest lad I ever knew. If your boy had lived, I think he would have been as straight a little fellow as Jack.” Elizabeth’s eyes filled. She had not yet learned to bear unmoved any mention of the child, who was quite forgotten by all except Darrell, Pelham, and herself. Just then Darrell entered from riding. He was neither as handsome nor as young–looking as he had been ten years before; and Pelham, who never had been handsome or particularly good–looking, was now quite gray and looked as if he had been baked in an oven, but he had the clearest, kindest eye and the firmest thin–lipped, sensible mouth, which redeemed his face from positive ugliness. Elizabeth was no longer a girl, but with the same striking and touching beauty of her girlhood. “So,” said Darrell, after kissing Elizabeth’s hand, “you are leaving us next week. By gad, I wish I were going with you, but Elizabeth won’t hear of it. Now if I had married an English wife instead of an American, she would have let me do as I please.” “And make yourself ill,” replied Elizabeth. “But if you will take care of yourself and do all I tell you, perhaps in the autumn I may take you to the Continent.” “But Pelham won’t be with us.” “You’re very complimentary,” replied Elizabeth, with a cheering air of coquetry. “Ten years ago you could get along with only me. Now you must have Pelham and I don’t know how many other men to keep you from being bored to death.” Such speeches are common when husband and wife are sure of each other.