or to old Isott, my darling, that medical men
sometimes get telegraphic messages at
unwonted hours, and that they may look care-worn
and speak sourly when they are worried out of
their wits, without having some deadly secret
on hand?"

"Telegraphic messages!" repeated Elsie,
slowly, as if pondering over the idea; "was
that really it? It was a telegraph office clerk,
then, I suppose? You must think me a goose,
Philip, for wondering who it could have been."

He smiled at her folly, then, crossing the
room to a desk where he kept his private papers,
brought her one of those pencil-written
documents at which most of our hearts have
sometimes beat high. It was a telegram from
Briswick, relating to the state of a former patient,
and bearing date the day before their marriage.

Elsie hung her head. He could not bear the
sight of her ashamed look, and he stooped and
kissed her forehead.

"I will speak to old Isott to-morrow," he
said; "these confounded old women who have
nursed one and washed one, as a baby, can
never be brought to understand that one is old
enough to be let alone."

"And you are not angry with me?"

"Angry with you? Oh! my poor child,"
he said, sitting down again, with a heavy sigh,
"I hoped I should have made you happy,
and it seems I have only made you troubled,
and anxious, and wretched. It would have
been better for you if you'd never seen me."

"You must be angry with me, or you
would not speak so," she answered. "You
know I think myself the happiest woman in the
world."

"At all events, you are my wife," he said,
abruptly; "you have taken me for better for
worse, my poor little thing, and you must
'dree your weird,' whatever comes. So sit
down here, Elsie, and let me rest my head on
your shoulder while I can, for I am very weary
to-night, my love. Oh, Elsie, I am very, very
weary."

In a few days he had quite recovered his
strength, and plunged afresh into his many
labours.

So the seasons came and went; winter
succeeded to summer, and summer returned; and
the peaceful stream of village life flowed on with
little to break or trouble its course. In a very
short time, as it seemed to Elsie Denbigh, the
first anniversary of her marriage passed, and then
the second passed, and now Christmas was over,
and the third was at hand. Mr. Denbigh had
prospered in all things; his reputation spread
and his work increased, and his income grew, and
he was cited in all the neighbourhood as the very
picture of a deservedly successful man. His
sweet wife was as much as ever the idol of his
adoration, and during the last few months had
been doubly the object of his tenderest care;
for the crowning blessing, without which the
happiest marriage must be incomplete, was
now about to be granted to them. She was all
delight and thankfulness; but it somewhat
troubled her that she could not quite arrive at
a full perception of her husband's feelings on
the matter. He smiled at her happiness, and
was never tired of watching her joyous little
matronly preparations; but, nevertheless, she
saw—and wondered as she saw—that though
he looked forward to the possession of their
new treasure with intense interest, it was an
interest largely mixed with trouble.

On a January morning she stood waiting for
her husband to come down to breakfast: stood,
idly watching the frost-bound garden and the
whitened field, and the long icicles which hung
from the boughs of the trees, and were reflected
in the Abbot's Pool.

She turned, as he entered, rubbing his hands,
and exclaiming against the cold. One of the
first acts of his married life had been to set up a
post-bag for his letters; and he had endured
with perfect indifference the many remarks
which this proceeding had brought upon him.
The bag now lay on the table, and he proceeded
to open it with the key which never left his
watch-chain.

"This is vexatious," he said, after glancing
through the one letter it contained. "Here am
I summoned to London, to appear to-morrow
before the committee about that Briswick
work-house case. I must start to-day."

"That is tiresome; and to-morrow evening
Mrs. Carter was to bring her children and her
little nieces to drink tea here. You will miss
them. What a pity."

"That I shall survive, I dare say; only don't
you tire yourself, love, whatever you do. I
shall try hard to get home the day after
to-morrow."

"Indeed, I hope so. Why, the day after
to-morrow is our wedding day!"

A search into the mysteries of Bradshaw
made it evident that the doctor must leave
Slowcombe by the train which started at one
o'clock. As the coach passed through Sedgbrook
at twelve, he said he would avail himself
of it, and not risk his horse on the icy roads.

"And I will come and see you off," said his
wife, pausing, as she moved away to her
hurried preparations. He demurred, but gave
way at the sight of her imploring face, saying:

"Well, well, I can't refuse you. But Jonathan
shall follow in the pony trap, and drive you
home. I won't have you sliding about these
frosty lanes without my arm to lean upon."

Isott often remembered in after days how she
watched them from the door; the strong husband
accommodating his brisk step to the slow
pace of his delicate wife, who clung to him
more out of love for the strong supporting arm
than because its stay was necessary to her.
Others there were also, who told long afterwards
how the pair walked together in close
conversation up the village street; how he looked
back after her from his seat, as long as the
coach was in sight; and how mournfully she
turned away.

The little party to which she had alluded was