"They had little pumps and trees. Then they had babies' rattles. _Babies' rattles._--Oh! I've said hardly any thing about the birds, have I? an' it's called '_The Birds and the Babies!_' They had lots of little pretty robins and canaries hanging round the ceiling, and--_shall_ I say?"-- Every one listened expectant during the pause that followed. "_--And--lived--happy--ever--after._" The puzzle in it all is chiefly what my husband hinted at,--why and how both the desire and the means of utterance should so long precede the possession of any thing ripe for utterance. I suspect the answer must lie pretty deep in some metaphysical gulf or other. At the same time, the struggle to speak where there is so little to utter can hardly fail to suggest the thought of some efforts of a more pretentious and imposing character. But more than enough! CHAPTER XLI. "DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE." I had for a day or two fancied that Marion was looking less bright than usual, as if some little shadow had fallen upon the morning of her life. I say _morning_, because, although Marion must now have been seven or eight and twenty, her life had always seemed to me lighted by a cool, clear, dewy morning sun, over whose face it now seemed as if some film of noonday cloud had begun to gather. Unwilling at once to assert the ultimate privilege of friendship, I asked her if any thing was amiss with her friends. She answered that all was going on well, at least so far that she had no special anxiety about any of them. Encouraged by a half-conscious and more than half-sad smile, I ventured a little farther. "I am afraid there is something troubling you," I said. "There is," she replied, "something troubling me a good deal; but I hope it will pass away soon." The sigh which followed, however, was deep though gentle, and seemed to indicate a fear that the trouble might not pass away so very soon. "I am not to ask you any questions, I suppose," I returned. "Better not at present," she answered. "I am not quite sure that"-- She paused several moments before finishing her sentence, then added,-- "--that I am at liberty to tell you about it." "Then don't say another word," I rejoined. "Only when I can be of service to you, you _will_ let me, won't you?" The tears rose to her eyes. "I'm afraid it may be some fault of mine," she said. "I don't know. I can't tell. I don't understand such things." She sighed again, and held her peace. It was enigmatical enough. One thing only was clear, that at present I was not wanted. So I, too, held my peace, and in a few minutes Marion went, with a more affectionate leave-taking than usual, for her friendship was far less demonstrative than that of most women.