He drew her head to his shoulder and stroked her soft hair as he gazed down at her pensive face. "Mary," he said at last, "what is it, my pet? How quiet you are! and you look quite sad." Her eyes filled with tears, and he was startled by the vehement passion with which she spoke. "It is--because I love you so! I cannot help being sad sometimes--Oh, Harry! Harry! I _do_ love you so!" and she put her arms round his neck and began to sob. "You curious little pet!" he said tenderly. "Oh, Harry!--If I could only tell you my secret!--I wonder if you would still love me, if you would ever forgive me, were you to discover it." "My darling! I thought we had settled that matter long ago. Really it is very silly of you to worry yourself about it." "I cannot help it sometimes, Harry--but I will be good now, and think no more about it," she said, smiling through her tears and kissing him. This was the one thorn in her happiness which still troubled her occasionally. Now and then, some circumstance, such as her husband's chance allusion to the elections on this occasion, would recall memories of her dark past. She could not tell him all. It was true that she was not deceiving him. He knew she had this secret, and he quite approved of the scruples that forbade her to confide it to him. But yet--there was this secret between them; and to her simple heart this was a terrible thing to be. There should be nothing of this kind, she told herself, between husband and wife. In her sensitive affection she imagined that the existence of a secret could not but separate them, though it were by an imperceptible distance only, that his love for her could not be quite perfect so long as this one chamber of her mind had to be kept shut to him. It was, perhaps, an unnecessarily morbid view to take of the matter, but it caused her some painful reflection. However, it was but rarely that even this small cloud came to mar the serenity of her life. * * * * * The happy summer had passed away, and autumn had come again. One morning, after breakfast, Mary, who was in an exceptionally gay mood, insisted on taking her husband by the hand and leading him into the greenhouse, where she was about to gather the nosegay of flowers which it was her custom to give him every day to carry with him in his carriage on his round of visits. "What a shame!" she exclaimed as she plucked the sober-hued autumnal blossoms. "The flowers that are out now are such dowdy-looking things. I can't give you the bright-looking bouquets you used to like so much a month or two ago, Harry." "Why, this is very nice, pet; look what rich colours your chrysanthemums have! I often wonder how you manage to keep up such a brilliant show of flowers here at all seasons. I believe it will be just the same in mid-winter."