d by
pre-established harmony. But I, for one, do not grudge Amos Barton this
sweet wife. I have all my life had a sympathy for mongrel ungainly dogs,
who are nobody's pets; and I would rather surprise one of them by a pat
and a pleasant morsel, than meet the condescending advances of the
loveliest Skye-terrier who has his cushion by my lady's chair. That, to
be sure, is not the way of the world: if it happens to see a fellow of
fine proportions and aristocratic mien, who makes no _faux pas_, and wins
golden opinions from all sorts of men, it straightway picks out for him
the loveliest of unmarried women, and says, _There_ would be a proper
match! Not at all, say I: let that successful, well-shapen, discreet and
able gentleman put up with something less than the best in the
matrimonial department; and let the sweet woman go to make sunshine and a
soft pillow for the poor devil whose legs are not models, whose efforts
are often blunders, and who in general gets more kicks than halfpence.
She--the sweet woman--will like it as well; for her sublime capacity of
loving will have all the more scope; and I venture to say, Mrs. Barton's
nature would never have grown half so angelic if she had married the man
you would perhaps have had in your eye for her--a man with sufficient
income and abundant personal eclat. Besides, Amos was an affectionate
husband, and, in his way, valued his wife as his best treasure.

But now he has shut the door behind him, and said, 'Well, Milly!'

'Well, dear!' was the corresponding greeting, made eloquent by a smile.

'So that young rascal won't go to sleep! Can't you give him to Nanny?'

'Why, Nanny has been busy ironing this evening; but I think I'll take him
to her now.' And Mrs. Barton glided towards the kitchen, while her
husband ran up-stairs to put on his maize-coloured dressing-gown, in
which costume he was quietly filling his long pipe when his wife returned
to the sitting-room. Maize is a colour that decidedly did _not_ suit his
complexion, and it is one that soon soils; why, then, did Mr. Barton
select it for domestic wear? Perhaps because he had a knack of hitting on
the wrong thing in garb as well as in grammar.

Mrs. Barton now lighted her candle, and seated herself before her heap of
stockings. She had something disagreeable to tell her husband, but she
would not enter on it at once. 'Have you had a nice evening, dear?'

'Yes, pretty well. Ely was there to dinner, but went away rat