Mrs. Rylands briskly moved
the table and chairs against the wall. Mr. Rylands played slowly and
strenuously, as from a conscientious regard of the instrument. Mrs.
Rylands stood in the centre of the floor, making a rather pretty,
animated picture, as she again stimulated the heavy harmonium swell not
only with her voice but her hands and feet. Presently she began to skip.

I should warn the reader here that this was before the "shawl" or
"skirt" dancing was in vogue, and I am afraid that pretty Mrs. Rylands's
performances would now be voted slow. Her silk skirt and frilled
petticoat were lifted just over her small ankles and tiny bronze-kid
shoes. In the course of a pirouette or two, there was a slight further
revelation of blue silk stockings and some delicate embroidery, but
really nothing more than may be seen in the sweep of a modern waltz.
Suddenly the music ceased. Mr. Rylands had left the harmonium and walked
over to the hearth. Mrs. Rylands stopped, and came towards him with a
flushed, anxious face.

"It don't seem to go right, does it?" she said, with her nervous laugh.
"I suppose I'm getting too old now, and I don't quite remember it."

"Better forget it altogether," he replied gravely. He stopped at seeing
a singular change in her face, and added awkwardly, "When I told you I
didn't want you to be ashamed of your past, nor to try to forget what
you were, I didn't mean such things as that!"

"What did you mean?" she said timidly.

The truth was that Mr. Rylands did not know. He had known this sort of
thing only in the abstract. He had never had the least acquaintance with
the class to which his wife had belonged, nor known anything of their
methods. It was a revelation to him now, in the woman he loved, and who
was his wife. He was not shocked so much as he was frightened.

"You shall have the dress to-morrow, Ellen," he said gently, "and
you can put away these gewgaws. You don't need to look like Tinkie
Clifford."

He did not see the look of triumph that lit up her eye, but added, "Go
on and play."

She sat down obediently to the instrument. He watched her for a few
moments from the toe of her kid slipper on the pedals to the swell
of her shoulders above the keyboard, with a strange, abstracted face.
Presently she stopped and came over to him.

"And when I've got these nice calico frocks, and you can't tell me from
Jane, and I'm a good housekeeper, and settle down to be a farmer's wife,
maybe I'll