"Oh, Richard! And Dick has been so nice to you ever since he came home. Why, he has not once asked to have any of his friends down to stay. And before this he was never content unless we filled the house. He takes walks with you, and is as domesticated and quiet as possible, so different from other young fellows, who are always racketing about." "That is just what bothers me," returned her husband, crossly. "You have no discernment, Bessie, or you would know what I mean. I should not care a straw if Dick were to cram the house with young fellows: that sort of larking is just natural at his age. Why, he quite pooh-poohed the idea of a dinner-party the other night, though I planned it for his pleasure. His mind is set on other things, and that is why I say he is up to mischief." Mrs. Mayne sighed as she smoothed down her satin dress with her plump white hands; but she could not gainsay the truth of this speech: his father was right,--Dick's mind was set on other things. "I wish you would let him talk to you," she began, timidly, remembering her promise. "Do, my dear; for I am sure Dick is very much in earnest." "So am I very much in earnest," he returned, wrathfully; and his small eyes grew bright and irritable. "No, it is no use your looking at me in that way, Bessie. I am determined not to allow that boy to ruin his prospects for life. He will thank me one day for being firm; and so will you, though you do turn against your own husband." This was too much for Mrs. Mayne's affectionate nature to bear. "Oh, Richard, how can you talk so? and I have been a good wife to you all these years!" And here the poor woman began to sob. "You might make allowance for a mother's feelings; he is my boy as well as yours, and I would cut off my right hand to make him happy; and I do--I do think you are very hard upon him about Nan." Mr. Mayne stared at her in speechless amazement. Bessie, his long-suffering Bessie,--the wife of his bosom, over whom he had a right to tyrannize,--even she had turned against him, and had taken his son's part. "Et tu, Brute!" he could have said, in his bitterness; but his wrath was too great. "I tell you what," he said, rising from the seat that was no longer restful to him, and pointing his finger at her, "you and your boy together will be the death of me." "Oh, Richard, how can you be so wicked?" "Oh, I am wicked, am I? That is a nice wifely speech."