The only malady that put Herbert Dorrance in frequent and unpleasant

remembrance of his mortality was a fierce headache, which had of

late years supervened upon any imprudence in diet, and upon

excessive agitation of mind or physical exertion. His invariable

custom, when he awoke at morning with one of these, was to trace it

to its supposed source, and after determining that it was nothing

more than might have been expected from the circumstance, to commit

himself to his wife's nursing for the day.

She ought, therefore, to have been surprised when, while admitting

that the pain in his head was intense, he yet, on the morrow

succeeding Mrs. Tazewell's funeral, persisted in rising and dressing

for breakfast.

"It must have been the roast duck at dinner yesterday," he calmly

and languidly explained the attack. "It was fat, and the stuffing

reeked with butter, sage, and onion. An ostrich could not have

digested it. I was tired, too, and should not have eaten heartily of

even the plainest food."

Mabel neither opposed nor sustained the theory. She had slept so ill

herself as to know how restless he had been; had heard his hardly

suppressed sighs and tossings to and fro, infallible indications

with him of serious perturbation. Had his discomfort been bodily

only, he would have felt no compunction in calling her to his aid,

as he had done scores of times. Her sleepless hours had also been

fraught with melancholy disquiet. Putting away from her--with

firmness begotten by virtue born of will--and so much of this

thoughtfulness as pertained to the bygone days with which Frederic

Chilton was inseparable associated, she yet deliberated seriously

upon the expediency of speaking out courageously to Herbert of the

relation this man had once borne to her, the incidents of their

recent meeting, and the effect she saw was produced upon her

husband's mind by the sight of him.

"If we would have this negative happiness continue, this matter

ought to be settled at once and forever," she said, inwardly. "He

must not suspect me of weak and wicked clinging to the phantoms of

my youth; must believe that I do not harbor a regret or wish

incompatible with my duty as his wife. I will avail myself of the

first favorable moment to assure him of the folly of his fears and

of his discomfort."

Another consideration--the natural sequence of her conviction of his

unhappiness--was a touching appeal to her woman's heart. If he had

not loved her more fervently than his phlegmatic temperament and

undemonstrative bearing would induce one to suppose, he would not

dread the rekindling of her olden fancy for another. The image of

him who, she had confessed, had taught her the depth and weight of

her own affections, whom she had loved as she had never professed to

care for him, would not have haunted his pillow to chase sleep, and

torture him with forebodings.




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