g. No, that won't do," as she seated herself with the
desk on her lap: "put it on the table. I can't have you bending over to
write on your lap, and so growing round-shouldered, especially in my
service."

"Any thing to please you," she returned gayly, doing as he directed. "I
suppose my right hand is not all of me that you lay claim to?"

"No, indeed! I claim you altogether, as my better and dearer half," he
said, his tone changing from jest to earnest, and the light of love
shining in his eyes.

She ran to him at that, put her arms round his neck, and laid her cheek
to his. "No, Ned, I can't have you say that," she murmured, "you who are
so good and wise, while I am such a silly and faulty thing, not at all
worthy to be your wife. Whatever made you marry me?"

"Love," he answered, drawing her closer, and fondly caressing her hair
and cheek,--"love that grows stronger and deeper with every day we live
together, dearest."

"Dear Ned, my own dear husband!" she said, hugging him tighter. "Words
could never tell how much I love you, or how I rejoice in your love for
me: you are truly my other, my best, half, and I don't know how I could
live without you."

"Our mutual love is a cause for great gratitude to God," he said
reverently. "There are so many miserably unhappy couples, I feel that I
can never be thankful enough for the little wife who suits me so
entirely."

"You are my very greatest earthly blessing," she replied, lifting her
head, and gazing into his face with eyes shining with joy and love; "and
your words make me very, very happy. Now," releasing herself from his
embrace, "it's time to attend to business, isn't it? I am ready to write
if you will dictate." And she seated herself before the desk, and took
up her pen.

It was not a lengthened epistle. He began with an acknowledgment of the
receipt of his mother's letter, expressed his sympathy in the sorrow and
suffering at Viamede, gave a brief account of his accident, consequent
illness, and partial recovery, highly eulogizing Zoe as the best of
wives and nurses.

When he began that, her pen ceased its movement, and was held suspended
over the paper, while, blushing deeply, she turned to him with a
remonstrance.

"Don't ask me to write that: I am ashamed to have mamma see it in my
handwriting."

"Go on," he said: "she will know they are my words, and not yours."

"Well, I obey orders," she replied with a smile; "but I don't half like
to do it."