supply Miss Ollivier
with good things for some weeks to come. If my mother had not been by, I
should have filled it up with books.

"Give me a loaf or two of white bread," I said; "the bread at Tardif's
is coarse and hard, as I know after eating it for a week. A loaf, if you
please, dear mother."

"Whatever are you doing here, Martin?" exclaimed Julia's unwelcome voice
behind me. Her bilious attack had not quite passed away, and her tones
were somewhat sharp and raspy.

"He has been living on Tardif's coarse fare for a week," answered my
mother; "so now he has compassion enough for his Sark patient to pack up
some dainties for her. If you could only give him one or two of your bad
headaches, he would have more sympathy for you."

"Have you had one of your headaches, Julia?" I inquired.

"The worst I ever had," she answered. "It was partly your going off in
that rash way, and the storm that came on after, and the fright we were
in. You must not think of going again, Martin. I shall take care you
don't go after we are married."

Julia had been used to speak out as calmly about our marriage as if it
was no more than going to a picnic. It grated upon me just then; though
it had been much the same with myself. There was no delightful agitation
about the future that lay before us. We were going to set up
housekeeping by ourselves, and that was all. There was no mystery in it;
no problem to be solved; no discovery to be made on either side. There
would be no Blue Beard's chamber in our dwelling. We had grown up
together; now we had agreed to grow old together. That was the sum total
of marriage to Julia and me.

I finished packing the hamper, and sent Pellet with it to the Sark
office, having addressed it to Tardif, who had engaged to be down at the
Creux Harbor to receive it when the cutter returned. Then I made a short
and hurried toilet, which by this time had become essential to my
reappearance in civilized society. But I was in haste to secure a parcel
of books before the cutter should start home again, with its courageous
little knot of market-people. I ran down to Barbet's, scarcely heeding
the greetings which were flung after mo by every passer-by. I looked
through the library-shelves with growing dissatisfaction, until I hit
upon two of Mrs. Gaskell's novels, "Pride and Prejudice," by Jane
Austin, and "David Copperfield." Besides these, I chose a book for
Sunday reading, as my observations upon my mother and