All too swift in its happiness flies the day, and Marmaduke comes to reclaim me. Yet the strange senses of rest and completeness that fills me, in the presence of the old beloved, distresses me. Why can I not feel for Marmaduke that romantic, all-sufficing devotion of which I have read? I certainly _like_ him immensely. He is everything of the dearest and best, and kind almost to a fault; therefore I ought to adore him; but somehow I cannot quite make up my mind to it. One should love a husband better than all the rest of the world put together; so I have heard, so I believe; but do I? I lay little plans; I map out small scenes, to try how far my affection for my husband will go. For instance, I picture to myself Billy or he condemned to start in the morning for Australia, never to return; one or other must go, and the decision rests with me. Which shall I let go, which shall I keep? I send Marmaduke, and feel a deep pang at my heart; I send Billy--the pang becomes keenest torture. Again, supposing both to be sentenced to death, and supposing also it is in my power to save one of them: which would I rescue? Marmaduke of course! I haul him triumphantly from his gloomy cell; but as I do so my Billy's beautiful eyes, filled with mute despair, shine upon me from out the semi-darkness, and I cease to drag Marmaduke: I cannot leave my brother. When this last picture first presents itself to my vivid imagination I am in bed, and the idea overcomes me to such a degree that I find myself presently in floods of tears, unable altogether to suppress my sobs. In a minute or two Marmaduke wakes and turns uneasily. "What is the matter, Phyllis," he asks, anxiously. "Is anything wrong with you, my darling?" "No, no, nothing," I answer hastily, and bury my nose in the pillow. "But you are crying," he remonstrates, reaching out a kindly hand in the darkness that is meant for my face, but alights unexpectedly upon the back of my head. "Tell me what is troubling you, my pet." "Nothing at all," I say again; "I was only thinking." Here I stifle a foolish sigh born of my still more foolish tears. "Thinking of what?" "Of Billy," I reply reluctantly. And then, though he says nothing, and though I cannot see his face, I know my husband is offended. He goes back to his original position, and is soon again asleep, while I lie awake for half an hour longer, worrying my brain with trying to discover what there can be to vex Marmaduke in my weeping over Billy.