"Oh, yes, she can talk, and very well too," returned that lady, quietly, "but she knows that I do not care about it; her silence is her great virtue in my eyes. And then she has tact, and knows when to keep out of the way," finished Mrs. Cheyne, with the utmost frankness; and, indeed, it may be doubted whether any other person would have retained her position so long at the White House. Mrs. Cheyne was no favorite with the young pastor, nevertheless she was an exceedingly handsome woman. Before the bloom of her youth had worn off she had been considered absolutely beautiful. As regarded the form of her features, there was no fault to be found, but her expression was hardly pleasing. There was a hardness that people found a little repelling,--a bitter, dissatisfied droop of the lip, a weariness of gloom in the dark eyes, and a tendency to satire in her speech, that alienated people's sympathy. "I am unhappy, but pity me if you dare!" seemed to be written legibly upon her countenance; and those who knew her best held their peace in her presence, and then went away and spoke softly to each other of the life that seemed wasted and the heart that was so hardened with its trouble. "What would the world be if every one were to bear their sorrows so badly?" they would say. "There is something heathenish in such utter want of resignation. Oh, yes, it was very sad, her losing her husband and children, but it all happened four or five years ago; and you know"--And here people's voices dropped a little ominously, for there were vague hints afloat that things had not always gone on smoothly at the White House, even when Mrs. Cheyne had her husband. She had been an only child, and had married the only survivor of a large family. Both were handsome, self-willed young people; neither had been used to contradiction. In spite of their love for each other, there had been a strife of wills and misunderstandings from the earliest days of their marriage. Neither knew what giving up meant, and before many months were over the White House witnessed many painful scenes. Herbert Cheyne was passionate, and at times almost violent; but there was no malice in his nature. He stormed furiously and forgave easily. A little forbearance would have turned him into a sweet-natured man; but his wife's haughtiness and resentment lasted long; she never acknowledged herself in the wrong, never made overtures of peace, but bore herself on every occasion as a sorely-injured wife, a state of things singularly provoking to a man of Herbert Cheyne's irritable temperament. There was injudicious partisanship as regarded their children: while Mrs. Cheyne idolized her boy, her husband lavished most of his attentions on the baby girl,--"papa's girl," as she always called herself in opposition to "mother's boy."