I spoke it in the bitter jest Of one his own deep sadness scorning. SENSIBLE WIFE. Well, candour is at all times best; I wish you, sir, a fair good morning! _Charles Graham Halpine._ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _KITTY ANSWERS._ IT was dimmest twilight when Kitty entered Mrs. Ellison’s room, and sank down on the first chair in silence. “The Colonel met a friend at the St. Louis, and forgot about the expedition, Kitty,” said Fanny, “and he only came in half-an-hour ago. But it’s just as well; I know you’ve had a splendid time. Where’s Mr. Arbuton?” Kitty burst into tears. “Why, has anything happened to him?” cried Mrs. Ellison, springing towards her. “To him? No! What should happen to _him_?” Kitty demanded, with an indignant accent. “Well, then, has anything happened to _you_?” “I don’t know if you can call it _happening_. But I suppose you’ll be satisfied now, Fanny. He’s offered himself to me.” Kitty uttered the last words with a sort of violence, as if, since the fact must be stated, she wished it to appear in the sharpest relief. “Oh, dear!” said Mrs. Ellison, not so well satisfied as the successful match-maker ought to be. So long as it was a marriage in the abstract, she had never ceased to desire it; but as the actual union of Kitty and this Mr. Arbuton, of whom, really, they knew so little, and of whom, if she searched her heart, she had as little liking as knowledge, it was another affair. Mrs. Ellison trembled at her triumph, and began to think that failure would have been easier to bear. Were they in the least suited to each other? Would she like to see poor Kitty chained for life to that impassive egotist, whose very merits were repellent, and whose modesty even seemed to convict and snub you? Mrs. Ellison was not able to put the matter to herself with moderation, either way; doubtless she did Mr. Arbuton injustice now. “Did you accept him?” she whispered feebly. “Accept him?” repeated Kitty. “No!” “Oh, dear!” again sighed Mrs. Ellison, feeling that this was scarcely better, and not daring to ask further. “I’m dreadfully perplexed, Fanny,” said Kitty, after waiting for the questions which did not come, “and I wish you’d help me think.” “I will, darling. But I don’t know that I’ll be of much use. I begin to think I’m not very good at thinking.” Kitty, who longed chiefly to get the situation more distinctly before herself, gave no heed to this confession, but went on to rehearse the whole affair. The twilight lent her its veil; and in the kindly obscurity she gathered courage to face all the facts, and even to find what was droll in them.