lfish woman! It used to be Rose here, and Rose there, until
you had stolen Rose's brother. Now you will not even say a word for
Rose; though a few words from you might get her into the best
society."

"I do not think society is the best thing for Rose, at this time.
Will you kindly excuse me? I hear the nursery bell. My son wants me."

"My son! Yes! One day some woman will take him from you."

"When that day comes, I pray God that I may have wisdom, and love, and
justice enough, not to treat that woman as you have treated me."

"Harry is my son yet."

"Harry is my husband. And a man shall leave his father and his mother,
and shall cleave to his wife. That is the Word of God."

"I shall tell Harry of your temper! I shall!"--but she found herself
talking to an empty room, and she picked up her fallen gloves and went
away.

It was evident, however, when Harry returned to his home in the
evening, that she had told Harry many things that had annoyed him. He
was silent, unresponsive, and had an air of injury or offence. Adriana
was only too familiar with this particular mood. Her first thought was
to defend herself; her second reminded her of the hopelessness of the
effort, or at least of its imprudence. Mrs. Filmer was not above the
common tactics of talebearers; and she had before accused Adriana of
being the informant, when, on the contrary, she had been mercilessly
subjugated to information she had no desire either to hear or to
discuss.

Therefore, if she told Harry that his mother had come to her with the
tale of Cora Mitchin, and Mrs. Filmer had already told him that
Adriana had been complaining to her on the same subject, whom was
Harry to believe? The presumption was in his mother's favor; but any
rate, it put him in the miserable position of deciding between his
mother and his wife. And she remembered that on one occasion when she
had proved her innocence beyond a doubt, Harry did not appreciate the
removal of the doubt; he had worn an air of annoyance and depression
for some days afterwards, and had been specially attentive to his
mother, as if her conviction required his extra sympathy to atone for
it.

So they had a wretched dinner, the only subject on which Harry was
inclined to talk being the illness and the return home of his sister.
He had caught the tone of Mrs. Filmer, and her commiseration for Rose;
and he spoke of her only as "the poor dear girl" and "the sad little
girl," while his silence wi