It was Saturday night, and Dr. Hardcastle had not yet returned home to supper. The family, except Elsie, had all retired to bed. Elsie had had a very fatiguing day, as most industrious housekeepers must have in bringing the week’s work to a conclusion. Elsie’s work, however, was not yet fully completed, though the family clock was on the stroke of nine, for having gotten through with all the heavy household labor, cleared up the supper-table, put the children to bed, and persuaded her mother to retire to rest, she set the coffee pot and a covered plate and dish to keep hot for Magnus, replenished the fire, drew a little table up before it, and sat down with a large basket of stockings to darn—a couple of dozen of little hose and half a dozen pair of large ones—all to be looked over, and half to be mended. And Elsie, with her usually happy alchemy of turning everything into a subject of congratulation, said to herself that it was very fortunate she had so many stockings to darn, as it made the time pass so much quicker while waiting for Magnus. Yet Elsie was very weary; very well prepared to appreciate the blessings of the Sabbath that makes cessation from work a positive duty. Yes, she was very weary, though the only signs of fatigue she showed were in the deeper flush of her cheek, the brighter light of her eyes, and the clammy moisture of her fair forehead that half uncurled the golden ringlets. The last little stocking was drawn upon her hand, and the bright needle swiftly gliding in and out among the meshes of the last rent, when the quick gallop of a horse into the yard apprised her that her husband had come, and in an instant more the door was thrown open and Dr. Hardcastle entered. Elsie was about to rise and receive him, when something strange and novel in his air and manner arrested her attention, as he said: “No, do not stir! Sit still, dear Elsie! I want to look at you just as you are a moment.” He threw off his great-coat, drew a chair to her side, seated himself by her, and gazed at her for the space of half a minute. Then he took her hand into his palm, pressed it, and, opening his hand, watched the rosy tide ebb and flow through her still beautiful fingers. “Elsie,” said he, “how long have we been married, dear wife?” “Eleven years and more,” replied she, looking up inquiringly. “Do you remember, dear, Judge Wylie’s ball given in honor of your return from school? Do you remember that we had just heard of my changed prospects, and that we knew if we should marry we would have to go forth to a life of toil and self-denial—and do you remember that I took this hand into mine with fear and trembling for its destiny as it lay in my broad, brown palm, a tiny snow-white thing, sparkling with diamonds like icicles on snow, a fairy hand—an ideal hand?”