elative values of the real and the
romantic. Mrs. Lowell diagnosed the case of the young wife--as Norman
had shrewdly guessed she would--and was soon adroitly showing her the
many advantages of her lot. Before they had been three months at
Hempstead, Dorothy had discovered that she, in fact, was without a
single ground for serious complaint. She had a husband who was generous
about money, and left her as absolutely alone as if he were mere
occasional visitor at the house. She had her living--and such a
living!--she had plenty of interesting occupation--she had not a single
sordid care--and perfect health.

The dreams, too--It was curious about those dreams. She would now have
found it an intolerable bore to sit with hands idle in her lap and eyes
upon vacancy, watching the dim, luminous shadows flit aimlessly by. Yet
that was the way she used to pass hours--entire days. She used to fight
off sleep at night the longer to enjoy her one source of pure happiness.
There was no doubt about it, the fire of romance was burning low, and
she was becoming commonplace, practical, resigned. Well, why not? Was
not life over for her?--that is, the life a girl's fancy longs for. In
place of hope of romance, there was an uneasy feeling of a necessity of
pleasing this husband of hers--of making him comfortable. What would
befall her if she neglected trying to please him or if she, for all her
trying, failed? She did not look far in that direction. Her uneasiness
remained indefinite--yet definite enough to keep her working from waking
until bedtime. And she dropped into the habit of watching his face with
the same anxiety with which a farmer watches the weather. When he
happened one day to make a careless, absent-minded remark in disapproval
of something in the domestic arrangements, she was thrown into such a
nervous flutter that he observed it.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing--nothing," replied she in the hurried tone of one who is trying
hastily to cover his thoughts.

He reflected, understood, burst into a fit of hearty laughter. "So, you
are trying to make a bogey of me?"

She colored, protested faintly.

"Don't you know I'm about the least tyrannical, least exacting person in
the world?"

"You've been very patient with me," said she.

"Now--now," cried he in a tone of raillery, "you might as well drop
that. Don't you know there's no reason for being afraid of me?"

"Yes, I _know_ it," replied she. "But I _feel_ afraid,