through
the bare branches of the elms. At times the landscape, mockingly
beautiful, was white and bleak as January. Drafts filled the lanes and
sleigh-bells jingled mockingly.

At last came grateful change. The wind shifted to the South. At mid-day
the eaves began to drip, and the hens, lifting their voices in jocund
song, scratched and burrowed, careening in the dusty earth which
appeared on the sunward side of the barn. Green grass enlivened the
banks of the garden, and on the southern slopes of the hills warmly
colored patches appeared, and then came bird-song and budding
branches!--so dramatic are the changes in our northern country.

No sooner was spring really at hand than Zulime and I, eager to share in
the art life which was so congenial to us both, returned to my former
lodging in Chicago; and a little later we went so far as to give a
party--our first party since our marriage. Fuller, who came early and
stayed late, appeared especially amused at our make-shifts. "This isn't
Chicago," he exclaimed as he looked around our rooms. "This is a lodging
in London!"

It was at this party that I heard the first word of the criticism under
which I had expected to suffer. One of our guests, an old and privileged
friend, remarked with a sigh, "Well, now that Zuhl has married a writer,
I suppose her own artistic career is at an end."

"Not at all!" I retorted, somewhat nettled. "I am an individualist in
this as in other things. I do not believe in the subordination of a wife
to her husband. Zulime has all the rights I claim for myself--no more,
no less. If she fails to go on with her painting or sculpture the fault
will not be mine. Our partnership is an equal one."

I meant this. Although dimly aware that mutual concessions must be made,
it was my fixed intention to allow my wife the fullest freedom of
action. Proud of her skill as an artist, I went so far as to insist on
her going back into her brother's studio to resume her modeling. "You
are not my house-keeper--you are a member of a firm. I prefer to have
you an artist."

Smiling, evasive, she replied, "I haven't at the present moment the
slightest 'call' to be an artist. Perhaps I shall--after a while; but at
present I'd rather keep house."

"But consider _me_!" I insisted. "Here am I, a public advocate of the
rights of women, already denounced as your 'tyrant husband,' 'a selfish
egotistic brute!'--I'll be accused--I am already accused--of cutting
short you