In March, Ella came home. She was full of her pretty ways, and delighted Albert by her multiform flattering attentions to Clara. “I was afraid—you can’t tell how afraid I was—that you would never forgive me for running off like a _sauvage_; but you have, have you not? I have heard so much of your goodness from Albert. When he came home last November he could talk of nothing but you—your grace, your beauty, generosity, accomplishments. I declare I was quite bewildered. Will you forgive me if I say I did not believe quite all he said? But I do now. I believe every word since I have seen you.” Clara had her doubts about the sincerity of Ella, but she would give no expression to them for fear of being unjust; and as Miss Delano had never attracted her especially—indeed, had never shown any tendency to real intimacy, though she was polite and graciously kind—it was rather pleasant, therefore, to Clara, who had been nearly frozen by a winter of Boston society, to be thawed into spontaneous gayety, even by a gushing, superficial creature like Ella. It was the first time since Clara’s school days that she had given herself up to pure nonsense—to volumes of talk without meaning—and it pleased at first simply by its novelty; and besides this, nothing delighted Albert so much as the good understanding between his wife and Ella. He encouraged every sign of intimacy between them, and this of itself was motive strong enough to induce Clara to be exceedingly gracious to his old friend. To please Albert in all ways constituted the joy of her life, though the halo investing him was dimmed slightly, from time to time, as she discovered little traces of ill-temper and impatience at the smallest and most insignificant disappointments. Once, for example, not long after Ella’s return, he complained of the coffee at breakfast, saying pettishly, “I don’t see how any cook, with good coffee and boiling water, can manage to make such a flavorless mess as this!” “It is one of your articles of faith, you know,” said Miss Charlotte, “that a perfect cup of coffee is not possible on the Western Continent.” Albert made no reply, which Clara noted as a signal manifestation of self-control, for this was not certainly “pouring oil upon the troubled waters.” In Paris, Albert had greatly appreciated the excellent quality of the coffee, and had brought home with him a French _cafétière_, which ever after appeared on the Delano breakfast-table. “Why, my son,” said Mr. Delano, “I consider this coffee very good;” and he sipped his with gusto. “But it is not perfect; and there is no excuse for it, that I can see. However, the toast is so infinitely worse, that I suppose the coffee ought to escape comment.” Ella had the bad taste to laugh. Miss Delano replied satirically, and in the same breath asked for more toast.