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Weeks and months passed on, and, apparently, all was going happily with our young friends. Mary had become more accustomed to passing some hours of each day alone, and her solitude was frequently enlivened by a visit from her mother, sister, or some young friend of her school-girl days. Arthur still appeared devotedly attached to her, and she certainly returned his affection most sincerely, and yet both felt that there was a change. It could scarcely be defined, and no cause could be assigned for it. They would have indignantly rejected the idea, that they loved each other less than formerly, but there was certainly less sympathy between them; they were not so closely united in every thought and feeling as they once had been. No unkind words had passed on either side, at least none which could really be regarded as such, for the trifles which had gradually produced this feeling of separation were almost too insignificant to call forth absolute unkindness; yet still they did their work slowly but surely.

Mary was the petted child of indulgent parents. Arthur had early lost both father and mother, and his childhood had passed with but little of the genial effects of female influence. He had spent most of his time at a school for boys, where, although his intellect was well cultivated, and his morals strictly attended to, there was little done to call forth those warm affections of which every young heart is susceptible. And as he grew to manhood, although his principles were excellent, and his feelings warm and tender, there was a want of that kindliness and gentleness of manner, and above all, of that peculiar faculty of adapting himself to the wants of a female heart, which would not have existed had he been blessed with the care of a mother, or the affectionate sympathy of a sister.

His acquaintance with Mary before their marriage had been of short duration, and these traits in his character had passed unobserved during the excitement of feeling which generally marks the days of courtship; but as this state passed away, and his usual habits returned, Mary’s sensitive heart was often wounded by trifling inattentions, although never by wilful neglect. Arthur was fond of study, and in his leisure hours he would sometimes become so entirely absorbed in some favourite author, that even Mary’s presence was forgotten, and the evening passed away without any effort on his part to cheer her evidently drooping spirits. Not that he was really selfish: it was mere thoughtlessness, and ignorance of those attentions which a woman’s heart demands. If Mary had requested him to lay aside his graver studies and read aloud in some work interesting to her, or pass an hour in cheerful conversation, or listening to music, he would have complied without hesitation, and, indeed, with pleasure; but she remained silent, secretly yearning for little acts of kindness, which never entered the mind of her husband. Another peculiarity which gave the young wife much pain, was that Arthur never or very rarely uttered words of commendation or approval. If anything was wrong he noticed it at once, and requested a change; but if right, he never praised. This is a common error, and it is a great one. Approval from those we love is as refreshing to the human heart as the dew to the fading flower; and to at woman’s heart it is essential: without it all kindly affections wither away; the softest, most delicate feelings become blunted and hard; the heart no longer beats with warm, generous emotions–it is cold, palsied, and dead.

Even in the most trifling details of domestic life, approval is encouraging and sweet. The weary wife and mother who has passed through a day of innumerable little vexations and difficulties, is cheered by the pleasant smile with which her husband takes his seat at the tea-and feels new life as she listens to his commendations of some favourite dish which she has placed before him.