distracted me. I do not know how I answered
him, but it must have been very foolishly, for
he laughed almost gaily, and said:

"Of course you love me, of course there is,
there can be, no one as dear to you as your
good-for-nothing William."

I had not said this, but I did not dare to
contradict him. I felt greatly troubled,
however, and confided my uneasiness to Mr.
Gibson.

"Poor boy," he said, kindly, " we must not
tell him yet. It would cut him up, but his plan
of staying here is all nonsense. He would
not like it long, nor should we. When his
health mends he will think very differently of
the future. In the mean while we must
humour him. Eh, little lady?"

I am afraid little lady's heart was sad and
heavy that day, for what was she to do between
these two? Never so well as after I became
his wife did I know the goodness of the man I
had married. His gentleness, his patience,
firmness, and good sense, did more to cure my
poor boy's mind and body than all my love and
my nursing. He roused him from his despair
to a mood more manly. He showed him
exertion to be both possible and desirable, and
when we at length acknowledged our marriage
to him, William, though he looked a little
disconcerted, took it very well, and said to me:

"Well, it was natural, being so lonely, that
you should wish for a companion; of course it
was."

He spoke apologetically, as if willing to make
every allowance for my weakness. He spoke,
too, in profound, and I suppose natural,
ignorance of my long love and wasted years. Ah!
William, William, did it not occur to you that
Sister Anne, too, had been young, and that she
had had the hopes of youth, whilst you were
still in your teens! I suppose the faded cheek
could tell no tale of past blushes, and that there
was no record of once happy dreams in her
eyes!

"I hope you will be very happy," continued
my brother, in the same tone; " I hope and
believe it. Gibson is a thoroughly good
fellow."

I was much nettled to hear my dear
husband, the best and noblest of men, called a
good fellow, but I must confess that his
estimate of my brother was equally moderate.

"There is no harm in him," he said to me;
"and now that he has had so severe a lesson,
he will do very well."

You see, no man is a hero to his valet, and
brothers-in-law are very rarely heroes to one
another. It was decided that my brother, who
was now quite well again, should once more go
to London, and try his fortunes there. To this
I could have no objection, but there was an
abruptness and a haste about his departure
which pained me, and for which I could not
help reproaching him when we parted at the
station. He heard me without answering one
word, but his first letter contained a long
justification of his conduct. It was a very fond and
foolish letter, and I could not help shedding a
few tears as I read it.

"Little lady, little lady," said my husband,
as he sat watching me across the breakfast-table,
"I know what is passing in your mind.
You are vexed with your boy because he left
vou rather suddenly, and, as you fancy,
unkindly. You are clever, little lady, but not very
deep. William went away so because the boy
was jealous of me. Of course you love your
brother, but of course you love your husband a
good deal more. And when he saw that, he
could not bear it. That is why he left us in
such a hurry."

I could not help laughing in my husband's
face, and I put my brother's letter in his hand,
pointing to the following paragraph:

"Ever since I can remember, I have been a
trouble to you, and I lately put a climax to my
sins by making your poor good-natured husband
jealous of me. Of course I know that Sister
Anne will never love any man as she loves the
boy she has reared and been a mother to, but
of course, too, it was not pleasant for poor Mr.
Gibson to see it, and the only return I could
make for all his kindness to me— and it has
been great— was to let him have his wife to
himself."

My husband having read thus far, became
very red, and gave me a shy, demure look of
his grey eyes.

"Well," he said, bravely, "and which of the
two do you love best, little lady?"

"Find it out," I replied—" find it out."

"Not I; I am sure of you. Find it out
indeed!"

I could not help smiling through my tears as
I heard him. I loved them both so much that
each thought himself the most beloved.

I had a letter from my dear boy yesterday.
He is doing very well again, he says, and Ellen
is coming back to him. " She left with the
shade, and returns with the sunshine," said her
brother. I said nothing. Let her but make
her husband happy— as happy, if she can, as
her brother has made me. The past is a dream
to Sister Anne now— a dream from which the
sadness daily fades away in the calm joys of the
present.