ted, and
doubtless these small defects would disappear as he grew older. True, he
was nearly four years her senior; but Dot did not regard years as in any
degree a measure of age. It was all a question of development, she would
say, and some people--women especially--developed much more quickly than
others. She herself, for instance--At which stage of the argument Bertie
invariably said or did something rude, and the rest of her logic became
somewhat confused. He was a dear boy and she couldn't possibly be cross
with him, but somehow he never seemed to realise when she was in earnest.
Another of the deficiencies of youth!

Meanwhile she occupied herself in her new home with all the zest of the
young housewife, returned calls with commendable punctuality, and settled
down once more to the many parochial duties which had been her
ever-increasing responsibility for almost as long as she could remember.

"You are not going to slave like this always," Bertie said to her one
evening, when she came in late through a November drizzle to find him
waiting for her.

"I must do what I've got to do," said Dot practically, suffering him to
remove her wet coat.

"All very well," said Bertie, whose chin looked somewhat more square than
usual. "But I'm not going to have my wife wearing herself out over what
after all is not her business."

"My dear boy!" Dot laughed aloud, twining her arm in his. "I think you
forget, don't you, that I was the rector's daughter before I was your
wife? I must do these things. There is no one else to do them."

"Skittles!" said Bertie rudely.

"Yes, dear, but that's no argument. Let's go and have tea, and for
goodness' sake don't frown at me like that. It's positively appalling.
Put your chin in and be good."

She passed her hand over her husband's face and laughed up at him
merrily. But Bertie remained grave.

"You're wet through and as cold as ice. Come to the fire and let's get
off your boots."

She went with him into the drawing-room, where tea awaited them.

"I'm not wet through," she declared, "and I'm not going to let you take
off my boots. You may, if you are very anxious, give me some tea."

Bertie pulled up a chair to the fire and put her into it; then turned
aside and began to make the tea.

Dot lay back with her feet in the fender and watched him. She was looking
very tired, and now that the smile had faded from her face this was the
more apparent.

When he brought her her tea