We will sit down with the family at a breakfast scene. Always attired with the neat simplicity of a lady, Madeline had not yet learned to appear before her husband with dishevelled hair, untidy costume, or any neglect of ladylike habits; and yet she was busier now than when Aunt Matilda expressed the fear that such might be the case; for, in her leisure moments, she still scribbled privately for the news-boys; but she had learned to live by system, thanks to the master of the family. "Roland, will you want the horses to-day?" asked the wife. "I think not; do you wish to ride, Madeline?" "Yes; I have a visit to pay; I have never returned Mrs. De Coursey's call." "I think that I shall have to refuse my wife the use of the horses to-day." Madeline changed countenance--to be refused! and before Aunt Matilda and Lavinia, it was really too bad. She began to tap her little foot under the table, and to play impatiently with her spoon. "Why can I not have the horses, if you are not going to use them, Roland?" "I do not wish my wife to cultivate the acquaintance of Mrs. De Coursey; she is not a proper associate for a pure-minded lady." "Why, what is the matter with Mrs. De Coursey? for my part, I think that she is charming; so sweet in her manners, so generous in her charities!" "Have you ever seen her ride with her husband, Madeline?" "I cannot say that I have," was the reply. "Have you not seen her riding repeatedly with that infamous George Sinclair, Madeline?" "I think I have, but he is her cousin; is he not?" "Perhaps so; but in the absence of her husband, she is much too free with gentlemen generally." "And so you really refuse me the horses, Roland?" "Do not let us talk about it now, my love; after breakfast, I will explain my reasons more fully." Roland looked deeply pained, Madeline angry and mortified, Lavinia Raymond contemptuous, and Aunt Matilda utterly surprised. It was the first ripple on the matrimonial surface. The meal passed in silence--husband and wife were thoroughly uncomfortable. After Madeline had washed her silver and glass, as was her custom, she proceeded, with a dejected step, to her favorite room. Roland followed--she was sitting in silence before her secretary, leaning her head on her hand, while she could not conceal the tears that were stealing through her fingers. "My dearest wife," said the young man, "have I pained you?" and he seated himself by her, winding his arm around her waist, and kissing away the tears, as they fell drop by drop from her eyes. She did not answer; conscience was busily at work, for she felt that she had been wrong. "Can you not trust me, love? would I refuse you any thing which I know was for your real good? but when the honor of my pure and noble wife is concerned, then I must be the husband, Madeline. Do you know that Mrs. De Coursey is not visited, even in New York, by any of the really pure and good?"