rue place,--at least the true
place of a wife of a David.

They had allowed her to bring their things and help them on with capes and
bonnets, and, when they were ready to leave, Aunt Amelia put out a
lifeless hand, that felt in its silk mitt like a dead fish in a net, and
said to Marcia:

"Our sister Clarinda is desirous of seeing David's wife. She wished us
most particularly to give you her love and say to you that she wishes you
to come to her at the earliest possible moment. You know she is lame and
cannot easily get about."

"Young folks should always be ready to wait upon their elders," said Aunt
Hortense, grimly. "Come as soon as you can,--that is, if you think you can
stand the smell of salt-rising."

Marcia's face flushed painfully, and she glanced quickly at David to see
if he had noticed what his aunt had said, but David was already
anticipating the moment when he would be free to lay aside his mask and
bury his face in his hands and his thoughts in sadness.

Marcia's heart sank as she went about clearing off the supper things. Was
life always to be thus? Would she be forever under the espionage of those
two grim spectres of women, who seemed, to her girlish imagination, to
have nothing about them warm or loving or woman-like?

She seemed to herself to be standing outside of a married life and looking
on at it as one might gaze on a panorama. It was all new and painful, and
she was one of the central figures expected to act on through all the
pictures, taking another's place, yet doing it as if it were her own. She
glanced over at David's pale, grave face, set in its sadness, and a sharp
pain went through her heart. Would he ever get over it? Would life never
be more cheerful than it now was?

He spoke to her occasionally, in a pleasant abstracted way, as to one who
understood him and was kind not to trouble his sadness, and he lighted a
candle for her when the work was done and said he hoped she would rest
well, that she must still be weary from the long journey. And so she went
up to her room again.

She did not go to bed at once, but sat down by the window looking out on
the moonlit street. There had been some sort of a meeting at the church
across the way, and the people were filing out and taking their various
ways home, calling pleasant good nights, and speaking cheerily of the
morrow. The moon, though beginning to wane, was bright and cast sharp
shadows. Marcia longed to get out into the night