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“You are aware,” said Kate, after a brief pause, and with a deepening flush on her cheeks, “how awkward and untidy Frederick is at times,–how he lounges in his chair, and throws his body into all manner of ungraceful attitudes.”

“Well?”

“This, as you know, has always annoyed me sadly. Night before last, I felt so worried with him, that I could not help speaking right out.”

“Ah! when you were worried?”

“Of course. If I hadn’t felt worried, I wouldn’t have said any thing.”

“Indeed! Well, what did you say? Was your tone of voice low and full of love, and your words as gentle as the falling dew?”

“Mrs. Morton!”

There was a half-angry, indignant expression in the voice of Kate.

“Did you lay your hand lightly, like the touch of a feather, upon the fault you designed to correct, or did you grasp it rudely and angrily?”

Kate’s eyes drooped beneath those of her friend.

“You were annoyed and excited,” continued Mrs. Morton. “This by your own acknowledgment, and, in such a frame of mind, you charged with faults the one who had vainly thought himself, at least in your eyes, perfect. And he, as a natural consequence, was hurt and offended. But what did you say to him?”

“I hardly know what I said, now,” returned Kate. “But I know I used the words ungraceful, undignified, and country clod-hopper.”

“Why, Kate! I am surprised at you! And this to so excellent a man as Frederick, who, from all the fair and gentle ones around him, chose you to be his bosom friend and life companion. Kate, Kate! That was unworthy of you. That was unkind to him. I do not wonder that he was hurt and offended.”

“Perhaps I was wrong, Mrs. Morton,” said Kate, as tears began to flow again. “But Frederick’s want of order, grace, and neatness, is dreadful. I cannot tell you how much it annoys me.”

“You saw all this before you were married.”

“Not all of it.”

“You saw enough to enable you to judge of the rest.”

“True; but then I always meant to correct these things in him. They were but blemishes on a jewel of surpassing value.”

“Ah, Kate, you have proved the truth of what I told you before your marriage. It is not so easy a thing to correct the faults of a husband–faults confirmed by long habit. Whenever a wife attempts this, she puts in jeopardy, for the time being at least, her happiness, as you have done. A man is but little pleased to make the discovery that his wife thinks him no better than a country clod-hopper; and it is no wonder that he should be offended, if she, with strange indiscreetness and want of tact, tells him in plain terms what she thinks. Your husband is sensitive, Kate.”

“I know he is.”

“And keenly alive to ridicule.”

“I am not aware of that.”

“Then your reading of his character is less accurate than mine. Moreover, he has a pretty good opinion of himself.”

“We all have that.”

“And a strong will, quiet as he is in exterior.”

“Not stronger, perhaps, than I have.”

“Take my advice, Kate,” said Mrs. Morton, seriously, “and don’t bring your will in direct opposition to his.”

“And why not? Am I not his equal? He is no master of mine. I did not sell myself as his slave, that his will should be my law!”

“Silly child! How madly you talk!” said Mrs. Morton. “Not for the world would I have Frederick hear such utterance from your lips. Does he not love you tenderly? Has he not, in every way, sought your happiness thus far in your brief married life? Is he not a man of high moral virtue? Does not your alliance with him rather elevate than depress you in the social rank? And yet, forsooth, because he lounges in his chair, and permits his body, at times, to assume ungraceful attitudes, you must throw the apple of discord into your pleasant home to mar its beautiful harmonies.”