Please let me hold the pens," said Dora. "I want to have something to do with all those many hours when you are so industrious. May I hold the pens ?"

The remembrance of her pretty joy when I said "Yes," brings tears into my eyes. The next time I sat down to write, and regularly afterwards, she sat in her old place, with a spare bundle of pens at her side. Her triumph in this connection with my work, and her delight when I wanted a new pen-which I very often feigned to do-suggested to me a new way of pleasing my child-wife. I occasionally made a pretence of wanting a page or two of manuscript copied. Then Dora was in her glory. The preparations she made for this great work, the aprons she put on, the bibs she borrowed from the kitchen to keep off the ink, the time she took, the innumerable stoppages she made to have a laugh with Jip as if he understood it all, her conviction that her work was incomplete unless she signed her name at the end, and the way in which she would bring it to me, like a school-copy, and then, when I praised it, clasp me round the neck, are touching recollections to me, simple as they might appear to other men.

She took possession of the keys soon after this, and went jingling about the house with the whole bunch in a little basket, tied to her slender waist. I seldom found that the places to which they belonged were locked, or that they were of any use except as a plaything for Jip-but Dora was pleased, and that pleased me. She was quite satisfied that a good deal was effected by this make-belief of house-keeping; and was as merry as if we had been keeping a baby-house for a joke.

All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again with Dora in our cottage. I do not know how long she has been ill. I am so used to it in feeling, that I cannot count the time. It is not really long, in weeks or months; but in my usage and experience, it is a weary, weary while.

careful boy is tiring himself out, she knows; that my aunt has no sleep, yet is always wakeful, active, and kind. Sometimes the little bird-like ladies come to see her; and then we talk about our wedding-day, and all that happy time.

What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to be-and in all life, within doors and without-when I sit in the quiet, shaded, orderly room, with the blue eyes of my child-wife turned towards me, and her little fingers twining round my hand! Many and many an hour I sit thus ; but, of all those times, three times come the freshest on my mind.

It is morning; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt's hands, shows me how her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, and how long and bright it is, and how she likes to have it loosely gathered in that net she wears.

"Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy," she says, when I smile; "but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful; and because, when I first began to think about you, I used to peep in the glass, and wonder whether you would like very much to have a lock of it. Oh, what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when I gave you one !"

"That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I had given you, Dora, and when I told you how much in love I was."

"Ah!" but I didn't like to tell you," says Dora, "then, how I had cried over them, because I believed you really liked me! When I can run about again as I used to do, Doady, let us go and see those places where we were such a silly couple, shall we? And take some of the old walks? And not forget poor papa?"

"Yes, we will, and have some happy days. So you must make haste to get well, my dear.” "Oh, I shall soon do that! I am so much better, you don't know!"

He is, as it were, suddenly grown very old. It may be that he misses in his mistress something that enlivened him and made him younger; but he mopes, and his sight is weak, and his limbs are feeble, and my aunt is sorry that he objects to her no more, but creeps near her as he lies on Dora's bed-she sitting at the bedside-and mildly licks her hand.

Dora lies smiling on us, and is beautiful, and utters no hasty or complaining word. She says that we are very good to her; that her dear old

burden up and down stairs now. She lies here all the day. "Doady!"

POMETIMES, of an evening, when I was at home and at work-for I wrote a good deal now, and was beginning in a small way to be known as a writer -I would lay down my pen, and watch my child-wife trying to be good. First of all, she would bring out the immense account-book, and lay it down upon the table, with a deep sigh. Then she would open it at the place where Jip had made it illegible last night, and call Jip up to look at his misdeeds. This would occasion a diversion in Jip's favour, and some inking of his nose, perhaps, penalty. Then she would tell Jip to lie down on the table instantly, "like a lion' which was one of his tricks, though I cannot say the likeness, was striking and, if he were in an obedient humour, he would obey. Then she would take up a pen, and begin to write, and find a hair in it. Then she would take up another pen, and begin to write, and find that it spluttered. Then she would take up another pen, and begin to write, and say in a low voice, "Oh, it's a talking pen, and will disturb Doady !" And then she would give it up as a bad job, and put the account book away, after pretending to crush the lion with it.

as a

Or, if she were in a very sedate and serious state of mind, she would sit down with the tablets, and a little basket of bills and other documents, which looked more like curl-papers than anything else, and endeavour to get some result out of them. After severely comparing one with another, and making entries on the tablets, and blotting them ont, and counting all the fingers of her left hand over and over again, backwards and forwards, she would be so vexed and discouraged, and would look so unhappy, that it gave me pain to see her bright face clouded --and for me!--and I would g softly to her and say:

go

Dora would look up hopelessly, and reply, "They won't come right. They make my head ache so. And they won't do anything I want!"

Then I would say, "Now, let us try together, Let me show you, Dora.”

Then I would commence a practical demonstration, to which Dora would pay profound attention, perhaps for five minutes; when she would begin to be dreadfully tired, and would lighten the subject by eurling my hair, or trying the effect of my face with my shirt-collar turned down. If I tacitly checked this playfulness, and persisted, she would look so scared and disconsolate, as she became more and more bewildered, that the By permission of Messrs.

remembrance of her natural gaiety when I first strayed into her path, and of her being my childwife, would come reproachfully upon me; and I would lay the pencil down, and call for the guitar.

me.

When the debates were heavy-I mean as to length, not quality, for in the last respect they were not often otherwise-and I went home late, Dora would never rest when she heard my footstops, but would always come down stairs to meet When my evenings were unoccupied by the pursuit for which I had qualified myself with so much pains, and I was engaged in writing at home, she would sit quietly near me, however late the hour, and be so mute, that I would often think she had dropped asleep. But generally, when I raised my head, I saw her blue eyes looking at me with the quiet attention of which I have already spoken.

"Oh, what a weary boy!" said Dora one night, when I met her eyes as I was shutting up my desk.

"What a weary girl" said I. "That's more to the purpose. You must go to bed another time, my love. It's far too late for you."

"No, don't send me to bed!" pleaded Dora, coming to my side. "Pray don't do that!” "Dora !"

To my amazement she was sobbing on my neck.

Not well, my dear not happy!" "Yes! quite well, and very happy!" said Dora. "But say you'll let me stop and see you write." "Why, what a sight for such bright eyes at midnight!" I replied.

"Are they bright, though?” returned Dora, laughing. I'm so glad they're bright." "Little Vanity!" said I.

But it was not vanity; it was only harmless delight in my admiration. I knew that very well, before she told me so.

"If you think them pretty, say I may always stop, and see you write!" said Dora. "Do you think them pretty?"

"Very pretty."

"Then let me always stop and see you write." "I am afraid that won't improve their brightness, Dora."

"Yes it will! Because, yon clever boy, you'll not forget me then, while you are full of silent fancies. Will you mind it, if I say something very, very silly-more than usual?" inquired Dora, peeping over my shoulder into my face. What wonderful thing is that?" said I. Chapman and Hall (Limited).

Doady looking up, and brightly smiling. "Even poor, giddy, stupid me!"

My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so much!"

"Oh, husband! I am so glad, yet so sorry creeping closer to me, and folding me in both her arms. She laughs and sobs, and then is quiet and quite happy.

"Quite!" she says. "Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her that I want very, very much to sce her; and I have nothing left to wish for." "Except to get well again, Dora."

"Ah, Doady! Sometimes I think-you know I always was a silly little thing!-that that will

from

V

they have told but I am far truth to heart. drawn by myself I have remembered the living and the All that gracious

I have tried to re-ign

Who went for at dead. I have both. and compassionate lis myself and to cous de and that, I hope, I may have done imperfectly let what I cannot firmly settle in my mind is, that the end will absolutely come. I hold her hand in mine. I hold her heart in mine, I Str her love for me, alive in

all its strength. I cannot shut out a pale lingering

shadow of belief that she will be spared.

"I am going to speak to you. Doady. I am going to say something I have often thought of

saying lately. You won't mind ?" with a gentle look.

"Mind, my darling?"

แ Because I don't know what you will think, or what you may have thought sometimes. Perhaps you have often thought the same. Doady, dear, I am afraid I was too young."

I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and she looks into my eyes and speaks very softly. Gradually, as she goes on, I feel, with a stricken heart, that she is speaking of herself as past.

"I am afraid, dear, I was too young. I don't mean in years only, but in experience, and thoughts, and everything. I was such a silly little creature! I am afraid it would have been better if we had only loved each other as a boy and girl and forgotten it. I have begun to think I was not fit to be a wife."

I promise that she shall, immediately; but I cannot leave her, for my grief.

"I said that it was better as it is !" she whispers, as she holds me in her arms. "Oh, Doady, after more years you never could have loved your childwife better than you do; and, after more years, she would so have tried and disappointed you, that you might not have been able to love her half so well! I know I was too young and foolish. It is much better as it is!"

Agnes is down stairs when I go into the parlour; and I give her the message. She disappears, leaving me alone with Jip.

His Chinese house is by the fire; and he lies within it, on his bed of flannel, querulously trying to sleep. The bright moon is high and clear. As I look out on the night my tears fall fast, and my

"I don't know,” with the old shake of her curls. "Perhaps!" But if I had been more fit to be married, I might have made you more so, too. Besides, you are very clever, and I never was."

"We have been very happy, my sweet Dora." "I was very happy, very. But, as years went on, my dear boy would have wearied of his child-wife. She would have been less and less a companion for him. He would have been more and more sensible of what was wanting in his home. She wouldn't have improved. It is better as it is."

I sit down by the fire, thinking with a blind remorse of all those secret feelings I have nourished since my marriage. I think of every little trifle between me and Dora, and feel the truth, that trifles make the sum of life. Ever rising from the sea of my remembrance is the image of the dear child as I knew her first, graced by my young love and by her own with every fascination wherein such love is rich. Would it, indeed, have been better if we had loved each other as a boy and girl and forgotten it? Undisciplined heart, reply! How the time wears I know not; until I am

restless than he was, he crawls out of his house, and looks at me, and wanders to the door, and whines to go up stairs.

"Not to-night, Jip! Not to-night !"

He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand and lifts his dim eyes to my face.

"Oh, Jip! It may be never again !"

He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out as if to sleep, and with a plaintive cry is dead. "Oh, Agnes! Look, look, here!"

-That face, so full of pity, and of grief, that rain of tears, that awful mute appeal to me, that solemn hand upraised towards heaven! "Agnes !"

It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes; and, for a time, all things are blotted out of my remembrance.