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“Oh, you naughty, naughty dear!” cried Annie, as she threw herself into his arms, rejoicing. But at sight of his worn and pallid face the smile faded from hers, and she thought, “What can have befallen him?”

His lip quivered, and, seeking with a watery smile to reassure her, he gave way and burst into tears. Unmanly of him, no doubt, but what is a man to do when he cannot help it? And where is a man to weep if not on his wife’s bosom? Call this behavior un-English, if you will; for, indeed, Hector was in many ways other than English, and, I protest, English ways are not all human. But I will not allow that it manifested any weakness, or necessarily involved shame to him; the best of men, and the strongest–yea, the one Man whose soul harbored not an atom of self-pity–upon one occasion wept, I think because he could not persuade the women whom he loved and would fain console to take comfort in his Father. Annie, for one reverent moment, turned her head aside, then threw her arms about him, and hid her glowing face in his bosom.

“There’s only me in the house, dear,” she said, and led the way to their room.

When they reached it, she closed the door, and turned to him.

“So they won’t take your story?” she said, assuming the fact, with a sad, sunny smile.

“They refused it absolutely.”

“Well, never mind! I shall go out charing to-morrow. You have no notion how strong I am. It is well for you I have never wanted to beat you. Seriously, I believe I am much stronger than you have the least notion of. There! Feel that arm–I should let you feel it another way, only I am afraid of hurting you.”

She had turned up the sleeve of her dress, and uncovered a grandly developed arm, white as milk, and blossoming in a large, splendidly formed hand. Then playfully, but oh! so tenderly, with the under and softest part of her arm she fondled his face, rubbing it over first one, then the other cheek, and ended with both arms round his neck, her hands folding his head to her bosom.

“Wife! wife!” faltered Hector, with difficulty controlling himself; “my strong, beautiful wife! To think of your marrying me for this!”

“Hector,” answered Annie, drawing herself back with dignity, “do you dare to pity me? That would be to insult me! As if I was not fit to be your wife when doing everything for my mother! There are thousands of Scotch girls that would only be proud to take my place, poor as you are–and you couldn’t be much poorer–and serve you, without being your wife, as I have the honor and pride to be! But, my blessed man, I do believe you have eaten nothing to-day; and here am I fancying myself your wife, and letting you stand there empty, instead of bestirring myself to get you some supper! What a shame! Why, you are actually dying with hunger!” she cried, searching his face with pitiful eyes.

“On the contrary, I am not in the least hungry,” protested Hector.

“Then you must be hungry at once, sir. I will go and bring you something the very sight of which will make you hungry.”

“But you have no money, Annie; and, not being able to pay, we must go without. Come, we will go to bed.” “Yes, I am ready; I had a good breakfast. But you have had nothing all day. And for money, do you know Miss Hamper, the dressmaker, actually offered to lend me a shilling, and I took it. Here it is. You see, I was so sure you would bring money home that I thought we might run that much farther into debt. So I got you two fresh eggs and such a lovely little white loaf. Besides, I have just thought of something else we could get a little money for–that dainty chemise my mother made for me with her own hands when we were going to be married. I will take it to the pawnbroker to-morrow.”