the last few years.
It had been a skein of adventure, and now his wife was his adventure.
Flowers stood in pretty vases on his table in the summer-time and
around the room were his books, and on the table his pens and paper.
The dining-room was always a little surprise, so profusely was the
table covered with silver. There were beautiful dinner and dessert
services to look at; the servants were well trained, they moved about
the table quickly--in a word, his home was full of grace and beauty.
Lately he had been a great deal from home and had come to look on Ellen
as a delicious recompense for the fatigue of a week's electioneering in
the West. The little train journey from Dublin was an extraordinary
excitement, the passing of the stations one by one, the discovery of
his wife on the platform, and walking home through the bright evening,
telling how his speech had been received.

Ellen always took Ned round the garden before they went into dinner,
and after dinner he went to the piano; he loved his music as she loved
her garden. She would listen to him for a while, pleased to find that
she liked music. But she would steal away to her garden in a little
while and he would go on playing for a long while before he would
notice her absence; then he would follow her.

"There were no late frosts this year, and I have never seen so many
caterpillars!" she said one evening when he joined her. "See, they have
eaten this flower nearly all away."

"How bright the moon is, we can find them by the light of the moon."

Passing behind the hollyhocks she threw the snails to Ned, not liking
to tread upon them herself; Ellen was intent on freeing her flowers
from gnawing insects and Ned tried to feel interested in them, but he
liked the moonlight on the Dublin mountains far better. He could not
remember which was Honesty and which was Rockit, and the difference had
been pointed out to him many times. He liked Larkspur and Canterbury
bells, or was it their names that he loved them for? He sometimes
mistook one for the other just as Ellen mistook one sonata for another,
but she always liked the same sonatas.

"In another month the poppies will be over everything," she said, "and
my pansies are beautiful--see these beautiful yellow pansies! But you
are not looking at my garden."

They went towards their apple-tree, and Ellen said it was the largest
she had ever seen; its boughs were thickest over the seat, and shot out
straight, mak