"By unselfishness," she said; "no marriage ever went on the rocks where both 'human critters' were unselfish! But I hope this poor, foolish woman's mind will keep young. If it doesn't, well, Maurice will just have to be tactful. If he is, it may not be so _very_ bad," she said, with determined optimism. "Kit, when a man has to be 'tactful' with his wife, God help him!--or a woman with her husband," he added in a sudden tender afterthought. "We've never been 'tactful' with each other, Mary?" She smiled, and put her cheek against his shoulder. "'Tactfulness' between a husband and wife," said Henry Houghton, "is confession that their marriage is a failure. You may tell 'em so, from me." "You may tell them yourself!" she retorted. "What are they going to live on?" she pondered "Can his allowance be increased?" "It can't. You know his father's will. He won't get his money until he's twenty-five." "He'll have to go to work," she said; "which means not going back to college, I suppose?" "Yes," he said, grimly; "who would support his lady-love while he was in college? And it means giving up his music," he added. "If he makes as much out of his renunciation as you have out of yours," she said, calmly, "we may bless this poor woman yet." "Oh, you old humbug," he told her--but he smiled. Then she repeated to him an old, old formula for peace; "'Consider the stars,' Henry, and young foolishness will seem very small. Maurice's elopement won't upset the universe." They were both silent for a while; then Mary Houghton said, "I'll write the invitation to them; but you must second it when you answer his letter." "Invitation? What invitation?" "Why, to come and stay at Green Hill until you can find something for him to do." "I'll be hanged if I invite her! I'll have nothing to do with her! Maurice can come, of course; but he can't bring--" His wife laughed, and he, too, gave a reluctant chuckle. "I suppose I've got to?" he groaned. "_Of course_, you've got to!" she said. The rest of the ride back to the old stone house among its great trees, halfway up the mountain, was silent. Mrs. Houghton was thinking what room she would give the bride and groom--for the little room Maurice had had in all his vacations since he became her husband's ward was not suitable. "Edith will have to let them have her room," she thought. She knew she could count on Edith not to make a fuss. "It's such a comfort that Edith has sense," she ruminated aloud. But her husband was silent; there was no more whistling for Henry Houghton that day. CHAPTER III