sorry to have been mistaken in Henry
Cartwright."

Twice did the unhappy man read this cutting letter; then, folding it
up slowly, he concealed it in one of his pockets. Nothing was said
about it to his wife, whose wordy admiration of the new carpet, and
morning, noon, and night, for the next two or three days, was a
continual reproof of his weakness for having yielded to her wishes
in a matter where calm judgement and a principle of right should
have prevailed. But she could not help noticing that he was less
cheerful; and once or twice he spoke to her in a way that she
thought positively ill-natured. Something was wrong with him; but
what that something was, she did not for an instant imagine.

At last the day arrived for cousin Sally Gray's visit. Unfortunately
the Venetian blinds were still at the blind-maker's, where they were
likely to remain for a week longer, as it was discovered, on the
previous afternoon, that he had never touched them since they came
into his shop. Without them the little parlor had a terribly bare
look; the strong light coming in, and contrasting harshly the new,
gaudy carpet with the old, worn, and faded furniture. Mrs.
Cartwright fairly cried with vexation.

"We must have something for the windows, Henry," she said, as she
stood, disconsolate, in the parlor, after tea. "It will never do in
the world to let cousin Sally find us in this trim."

"Cousin Sally will find a welcome in our hearts," replied her
husband, in a sober voice, "and that, I am sure, will be more
grateful to her than new carpets and window blinds."

The way in which this was spoken rather surprised Mrs. Cartwright,
and she felt just a little rebuked.

"Don't you think," she said, after a few moments of silence on both
sides, "that we might afford to buy a few yards of lace to put up to
the windows, just for decency's sake?"

"No," answered the husband, firmly. "We have afforded too much
already."

His manner seemed to Mrs. Cartwright almost ill-natured. It hurt her
very much. Both sat down in the parlor, and both remained silent.
Mrs. Cartwright thought of the mean appearance everything in that
"best room" would have in the eyes of cousin Sally, and Mr.
Cartwright thought of his debt to his friend, and of that friend's
anger and alienation. Both felt more uncomfortable than they had
been for a long time.

On the next day cousin Sally arrived. She had not come to spy out
the nakedness of the land,--not for the