She struggled on bravely, biting her lip to keep back the tears that would come and render the page illegible. At last a drop fell on a black note, as she was bending her head towards the music-book. The Canon stopped short and laid his violin and bow hastily on the piano. “My dearest,” he exclaimed, stooping over her. “It is all over. Don’t be unhappy. I did not mean to be unkind to you. I am afraid I was. It is I who am not fit for so tender and sensitive a nature.” He sat down by her on the broad piano-seat and let her cry upon his shoulder. He had an uncomfortable feeling that in some way he had been brutal. A man must be as hard as Mephistopheles not to experience this sensation the first time he makes a woman cry. The second or third time he calls his attitude firmness; afterwards he characterises her conduct as unreasonable. A wise woman makes the very most of the first tears of her married life. But Yvonne was not a wise woman. She dried her eyes as fast as she could, and felt ashamed and humbled, and went and bathed them in eau-de-cologne and water, and, seeing that the Canon desired her to be her old self, for that evening at any rate, did her best to humour him. After this, her life went on, not unhappily, but unlifted by the buoyancy of the first six months. Her illusions had been shattered. The spontaneity of her actions was checked. They became little tasks, whose excellence she could not judge until the Canon had pronounced upon them. She made prodigious efforts to fulfil his wishes. Some met with success. Others, such as attempts at parish organisation, failed. Mrs. Winstanley, like Betsy Jane in Artemus Ward’s book, would not be reorganised. The Canon intervened, but his cousin stood firm, and at last he had to yield. In district visiting, Yvonne had hard struggles. If she had carried her own charming _insouciance_ into working homes, she would have won all hearts. But, morbidly conscious of the responsibilities of her position, she judged it her duty to cast frivolity from her and to put on the serious dignity of the Rector’s wife, which fitted her as easily as a suit of armour. As for theology, she read with a zeal only equalled by her incapacity of appreciating the drift of the science. To the end of her days Yvonne could see no other difference between a Churchman and a Dissenter, except that one had a pretty service and the other a dull one. So closely, however, did she pursue her studies that the Canon took pity on her, and came back from London one day with “Gyp’s” latest production in his pocket. It would have done an archbishop good to see the gleam of pleasure in Yvonne’s eyes.