“What did you think, my Peace?—you have never told me; what kind of a position did you imagine you were to occupy as my wife?” “I did not think of position at all,” Salome answered musingly. “I knew, of course, you were a physician, and I knew that, some time, you would win a high place in the world.” “Why?” he interposed. “What made you think so?” “Because,” she said, lifting her beautiful eyes to his face and letting them rest there proudly, “no one ever had so grand a head, so intelligent a face, without the ability to climb where he would.” “Thank you, my wife,” the young man responded with lips that were slightly tremulous, for her estimate of him moved him deeply. “But,” she went on, “I did not give much thought to your circumstances; I only know that my life could never be complete apart from you—my heart, my very being, had become bound up in you, yourself, to the exclusion of every other thought, or wish, or hope.” The words were low, but so fraught with tenderness and feeling that they swayed, almost intoxicated, the strong man beside her like old wine. Impulsively he gathered her to him, and held her close against his breast. “My wife—my Peace—my love,” he whispered, “how glad I am, for your sake, that I am wealthy—that I can shower upon you every earthly blessing. Oh, I hope that you will be happy with me, Salome.” She wondered, as she lay there against his heart, how she could have doubted his love. She believed that she never could doubt him again, for his clasp, his tone, his look seemed to tell her that she was the very mainspring of his life, and she could almost have wept from excess of happiness. But she thought it would never do to christen her homecoming with tears; so, hiding her emotion beneath the semblance of gentle mirth, she said gayly: “You must not spoil me to begin with, Dr. True—dear True,” with a sly glance and blush as she thus changed the prefix, “for you cannot tell what a tyrant I may become. And you must not forget, either, that it was only a poor nurse whom you have married. But when are you going to let me tell you just who and what I am?” “I’ll risk your being spoiled or becoming a tyrant, sweetheart, and as to who you are, I know already,” he answered, his face fairly luminous over her low-toned “dear True.” She looked up with a strangely startled expression, he thought, and all her color fled as she asked: “Who?” “Why, Mrs. Dr. Truman Winthrop, of No. — Madison Avenue, of course. And now,” as the carriage suddenly stopped, “here we are at home.” CHAPTER VII. DR. WINTHROP RECEIVES A DISPATCH. The carriage had drawn up before an imposing house, and Salome observed that other fine residences lined both sides of the spacious street.