"It's all the same. Such a pretty, friendly letter; so full of good advice! Young wives need advice, and old wives can give it them." "But when did you hear from her?" I asked. "Don't you remember? It was when we were engaged." "I remember that I wrote to her of our engagement, and that she did not reply to me. She wrote to you instead. Is that the letter you refer to?" "Yes." "You told me that you tore up the letter the moment you read it, and that she must be an awful woman. I distinctly recollect your saying that we could do without her and her beautiful son." "What a memory you have, John! Or are you making it up?" "I am not making it up. You did not tear up the letter?" "No," she said with a beaming smile, "I kept it by me, and I am sure you are mistaken in what you think I said. I did not show it to you because I knew you had some feeling against her and Louis, and I didn't want to annoy you. I am not the woman to make mischief between such near relations. Little differences will arise, and it is our duty to try and smooth them over. That is what I did, and you will be delighted to hear that they are content to let byegones be byegones, and are burning to see you." "I will think over it." "I have thought over it for you, dear. They are coming to dinner this evening." "Do you consider it right, Barbara, to invite them without consulting me?" "I do, my dear. I am a peacemaker. Our housewarming will be quite a family party." I submitted, wondering to what length Barbara would go in her duplicity, and whether she or I was mistaken in our recollection of the circumstances in connection with this particular letter. I did not wonder long. I knew that I was right. Maxwell made his appearance an hour before dinner, and--having made up my mind--I received him with a cordiality which I did not feel. "Well, here you are," he said, with a searching glance at me, "a regular married man after your lovely holiday tour. Enjoyed yourself?" "Barbara has given you a full account, no doubt," I replied, all the evil that was in my nature aroused by his mocking voice; "judge from that." "You must be a model husband, then," he said, laughing quietly to himself, "and she a model wife. I owe you an apology for not joining you on the Continent. The fact is"--he looked to see that Barbara was out of hearing--"I was not traveling alone, and upon considering the matter I came to the conclusion that our company might not suit you. A question of morals, you know." "I am obliged to you." "For keeping away? Good. One to you. Where are you going, Barbara?" "Domestic affairs," she replied. "To do the cooking." And she left the room. "Was your accident very serious?" I asked. "Accident!" he exclaimed. "What accident?" "Then you did not meet with one?" "Not that I am aware of. I had the jolliest time."