er shallow fancy. And unfortunately the same note of nature suggested to
Mr. Lyon the contrast of this artificial piece of loveliness with the
domestic life of which he dreamed.

As for Margaret, she opened her heart to the spring without reserve. It
was May. The soft maples had a purple tinge, the chestnuts showed color,
the apple-trees were in bloom (all the air was full of their perfume),
the blackbirds were chattering in convention in the tall oaks, the bright
leaves and the flowering shrubs were alive with the twittering and
singing of darting birds. The soft, fleecy clouds, hovering as over a
world just created, seemed to make near and participant in the scene the
delicate blue of the sky. Margaret--I remember the morning--was standing
on her piazza, as I passed through the neighborhood drive, with a spray
of apple-blossoms in her hand. For the moment she seemed to embody all
the maiden purity of the scene, all its promise. I said, laughing:

"We shall have to have you painted as spring."

"But spring isn't painted at all," she replied, holding up the apple
--blossoms, and coming down the piazza with a dancing step.

"And so it won't last. We want something permanent," I was beginning to
say, when a carriage passed, going to our house. "I think that must be
Henderson."

"Ah!" she exclaimed. Her sunny face clouded at once, and she turned to go
in as I hurried away.

It was Mr. Henderson, and there was at least pretense enough of business
to occupy us, with Mr. Morgan, the greater part of the day. It was not
till late in the afternoon that Henderson appeared to remember that
Margaret was in the neighborhood, and spoke of his intention of calling.
My wife pointed out the way to him across the grounds, and watched him
leisurely walking among the trees till he was out of sight.

"What an agreeable man Mr. Henderson is!" she said, turning to me; "most
companionable; and yet--and yet, my dear, I'm glad he is not my husband.
You suit me very well." There was an air of conviction about this remark,
as if it were the result of deep reflection and comparison, and it was
emphasized by the little possessory act of readjusting my necktie--one
of the most subtle of female flatteries.

"But who wanted him to be your husband?" I asked. "Married women have the
oddest habit of going about the world picking out the men they would not
like to have married. Do they need continually to justify themselves?"

"No; they congratula