Jewel Weed

Such was Lena in the first months of her marriage. The world's warmth

welcomed her, partly in curiosity, and partly because she was in truth

Richard Percival's wife, and the protégée of Mrs. Lenox, who took every

pains to shield her and help her. The ways of that little sphere that

calls itself society she found it not difficult to acquire, when to

beauty she added the paraphernalia of luxury. A little trick of holding

oneself, a turn of speech, a familiarity with a certain set of people

and their doings, and the thing is accomplished. Was there ever yet an

American girl, whose supreme characteristic is adaptability, who could

not learn it in a few months, if she set her mind to it?

As she experienced the true pleasure of being inside, which is the

knowledge that there are outsiders raging to make entrance, she spread

her wings, did Madame Cecropia, and the only wonder was that she was

ever packed away in the dull gray chrysalis. And now every one forgot

that ugly thing, when Lena changed her sky but not her heart.

Dick and she lived in a whirl; and if he would have liked, after

strenuous days spent in spreading political feelers, to have found at

home quiet evenings and old slippers, he was rapidly learning that the

position of husband to a young beauty is no sinecure. And he admired and

loved her too much to fling even a rose leaf of opposition in her path.

The very hardship of her past made him tender to every whim of the

present. Dick's chivalry was deep-grained, as it is in men who have

lived among pure and simple women. In everything that wore petticoats he

saw something of his mother, fragile, noble, ambitious for those she

loved and forgetful of self. When Lena began to show him things that he

could not admire, he laid the blame of them, not to her, but to the

world that had played the brute to her. And if he tried to change her it

was with apology in his heart for daring to criticize. But as Lena came

to take for granted the ease and comfort of her new life, she more and

more laid aside the pose with which she had at first edified her lord,

and spoke her real mind. She had fully acquired the manner and the

garments of a lady. She could not see that more was needed.

One gray wintry day, as they walked homeward together from a midday

musicale, they passed a grimy little girl who whimpered as she clutched

her small person.

"What's the matter, girlie?" asked Dick, and as he stopped his wife,

too, halted perforce.

"My pettitoat's comin' down," sobbed the child.

"Is that all?" said Dick. "I wouldn't cry about such a little thing.

I'll soon fix it for you." And he stooped.