[Illustration: “But I detest walking in the country.”] “Well, Lillie dear, I am sorry; but we don’t live in New York, and are not likely to,” said John. “Why can’t we? Mrs. Follingsbee said that a man in your profession, and with your talents, could command a fortune in New York.” “If it would give me the mines of Golconda, I would not go there,” said John. “How stupid of you! You know you would, though.” “No, Lillie; I would not leave Springdale for any money.” “That is because you think of nobody but yourself,” said Lillie. “Men are always selfish.” “On the contrary, it is because I have so many here depending on me, of whom I am bound to think more than myself,” said John. “That dreadful mission-work of yours, I suppose,” said Lillie; “that always stands in the way of having a good time.” “Lillie,” said John, shutting his book, and looking at her, “what is your ideal of a good time?” “Why, having something amusing going on all the time,—something bright and lively, to keep one in good spirits,” said Lillie. “I thought that you would have enough of that with your party and all,” said John. “Well, now it’s all over, and duller than ever,” said Lillie. “I think a little spirit of gayety makes it seem duller by contrast.” “Yet, Lillie,” said John, “you see there are women, who live right here in Springdale, who are all the time busy, interested, and happy, with only such sources of enjoyment as are to be found here. Their time does not hang heavy on their hands; in fact, it is too short for all they wish to do.” “They are different from me,” said Lillie. “Then, since you must live here,” said John, “could you not learn to be like them? Could you not acquire some of these tastes that make simple country life agreeable?” “No, I can’t; I never could,” said Lillie, pettishly. “Then,” said John, “I don’t see that anybody can help your being unhappy.” And, opening his book, he sat down, and began to read. Lillie pouted awhile, and then drew from under the sofa-pillow a copy of “Indiana;” and, establishing her feet on the fender, she began to read. Lillie had acquired at school the doubtful talent of reading French with facility, and was soon deep in the fascinating pages, whose theme is the usual one of French novels,—a young wife, tired of domestic monotony, with an unappreciative husband, solacing herself with the devotion of a lover. Lillie felt a sort of pique with her husband. He was evidently unappreciative: he was thinking of all sorts of things more than of her, and growing stupid, as husbands in French romances generally do. She thought of her handsome Cousin Harry, the only man that she ever came anywhere near being in love with; and the image of his dark, handsome eyes and glossy curls gave a sort of piquancy to the story. John got deeply interested in his book; and, looking up from time to time, was relieved to find that Lillie had something to employ her.