my dear boy," was his mother's greeting.

The others said "Good-morning," and all smilingly awaited an explanation.

"Good-morning to you all," returned Edward, taking his seat. "Of course I
have not had time to attend to the business matter that took me away; but
the fact is, I found I could not do without my wife, so came back after
her."

"Where is she now?" asked his mother.

"I left her still in bed and asleep. I came home by the stage, found her
awake--indeed, I think she said she had not slept at all--and kept her
awake for some time talking----"

"So much to say after so lengthened a separation?" laughingly interrupted
his grandfather.

"Yes, sir, a good deal," Edward answered, coloring slightly. "So she has
to make it up now, and I would not wake her."

"Quite right," said his mother. "Her breakfast shall be sent up whenever
she is ready for it."

"I'm very glad you've come, Ned," remarked Rosie, "for Zoe nearly cried
her eyes out yesterday, grieving after you. 'Twouldn't be I that would
fret so after any man living--unless it might be grandpa," with a
coquettish, laughing look at him.

"Thank you, my dear," he said.

"Ah, lassie, that's a' because your time hasna come yet," remarked Mr.
Lilburn. "When it does, you'll be as lovelorn and foolish as the rest."

"Granting that it is foolish for a woman to love her husband," put in Mrs.
Dinsmore, sportively.

"A heresy never to be countenanced here," said her spouse; "the husbands
and wives of this family expect to give and receive no small amount of
that commodity. Do you set off again this morning, Ned?"

"No, sir; not before to-morrow; not then unless Zoe is ready to go with
me."

"Quite right, my boy, your wife's health and happiness are, as your mother
remarked to me yesterday, of more consequence than any mere business
matter."

On leaving the table Edward followed his mother out to the veranda.

"Can I have a word in private with you, mamma?" he asked, and she thought
his look was troubled.

"Certainly," she said. "I hope nothing is wrong with our little Zoe?"

"It is of her--and myself I want to speak. I feel impelled to make a
confession to you, mother dear, that I would not willingly to any one
else. Perhaps you have suspected," he added, coloring with mortification,
"that all was not right between us when I left yesterday. She would not
have fretted so over my mere absence of a few days, but I had scolded and
threatened her the nig