e asked. "Those little
demons of ponies running away again?"

"No," she answered, scarce audibly.

"Something has gone wrong with you," he persisted. "Have you caught
cold? None of the old symptoms, I hope?"

"None, Paul. There is nothing the matter," she answered, laying her head
lightly, as if afraid of the liberty she took, upon his shoulder. His
arm went round her waist.

"What is it, then, my wife?" he said tenderly.

"Which would you rather have, Paul--have me die, or do something
wicked?"

"Juliet, this will never do!" he returned quietly but almost severely.
"You have been again giving the reins to a morbid imagination. Weakness
and folly only can come of that. It is nothing better than hysteria."

"No, but tell me, dear Paul," she persisted pleadingly. "Answer my
question. Do, please."

"There is no such question to be answered," he returned. "You are not
going to die, and I am yet more certain you are not going to do any
thing wicked. Are you now?"

"No, Paul. Indeed I am not. But----"

"I have it!" he exclaimed. "You went to church at Nestley last night!
Confound them all with their humbug! You have been letting their
infernal nonsense get a hold of you again! It has quite upset you--that,
and going much too long without your dinner. What _can_ be keeping it?"
He left her hurriedly and rang the bell. "You must speak to the cook, my
love. She is getting out of the good habits I had so much trouble to
teach her. But no--no! you shall not be troubled with _my_ servants. I
will speak to her myself. After dinner I will read you some of my
favorite passages in Montaigne. No, you shall read to me: your French
is so much better than mine."

Dinner was announced and nothing more was said. Paul ate well, Juliet
scarcely at all, but she managed to hide from him the offense. They rose
together and returned to the drawing-room.

The moment Faber shut the door Juliet turned in the middle of the room,
and as he came up to her said, in a voice much unlike her own:

"Paul, if I _were_ to do any thing very bad, as bad as could be, would
you forgive me?"

"Come, my love," expostulated Faber, speaking more gently than before,
for he had had his dinner, "surely you are not going to spoil our
evening with any more such nonsense!"

"Answer me, Paul, or I shall think you do not love me," she said, and
the tone of her entreaty verged upon demand. "Would you forgive me if I
had done something _very_ bad?"

"Of co