rades, Mrs. Thorne," she said,
turning suddenly to Dora; "they are very popular in England. Tell me
of some."

Dora blushed. She thought of the lodge and its one small parlor, and
then felt wretched and uncomfortable, out of place, and unhappy.

"I have never seen any charades," she said, stiffly, and with crimson
cheeks.

The countess opened her blue eyes in surprise, and Ronald looked
anxiously from one to the other.

"My wife was too young when we were married to have seen much of the
world," he said, inwardly hoping that the tears he saw gathering in
Dora's dark eyes would not fall.

"Ah, then, she will be of no use in our council," replied the countess,
quickly. "Let us go out on the terrace; there is always inspiration
under an Italian sky."

She led the way to a pretty veranda on the terrace, and they sat under
the shade of a large spreading vine.

"Now we can discuss my difficulty in peace," said the lady, in her
pretty, imperious way. "I will, with your permission, tell you some of
my ideas."

The countess was not particularly gifted, but Ronald was charmed by the
series of pictures she placed before him, all well chosen, with
startling points of interest, scenes from noble poems, pictures from
fine old tragedies. She never paused or seemed tired, while Dora sat,
her face still flushed, looking more awkward and ill at ease than
Ronald had ever seen her. For the first time, as they sat under the
vine that morning, Ronald contrasted his wife with his dainty,
brilliant hostess, and felt that she lost by the contrast--"awkward and
ill at ease," self-conscious to a miserable degree. For the first time
Ronald felt slightly ashamed of Dora, and wished that she knew more,
and could take some part in the conversation. Dimples and smiles,
curling rings of dark hair, and pretty rosebud lips were, he thought,
all very well, but a man grew tired of them in time, unless there was
something to keep up the charm. But poor little Dora had no resources
beyond her smiles and tears. She sat shrinking and timid, half
frightened at the bright lady who knew so much and told it so well;
feeling her heart cold with its first dread that Ronald was not pleased
with her. Her eyes wandered to the far-off hills. Ah! Could it be
that he would ever tire of her and wished that he had married some one
like himself. The very thought pierced her heart, and the timid young
wife sat with a sorrowful look upon her face that to