saw very little of each
other, but were seen together on all fitting occasions. The morning
service in the little church at Beechdale would not have seemed
complete without those two figures. The faded beauty in trailing silken
draperies and diaphanous bonnet, the slim, well-dressed Captain, with
his bronzed face and black whiskers. They were in everybody's idea the
happiest example of married bliss. If the lady's languid loveliness had
faded more within the last year or so than in the ten years that went
before it, if her slow step had grown slower, her white hand more
transparent, there were no keen loving eyes to mark the change.

"That affectation of valetudinarianism is growing on Mrs. Winstanley,"
Mrs. Scobel said one day to her husband. "It is a pity. I believe the
Captain encourages it."

"She has not looked so well since Violet went away," answered the
kindly parson. "It seems an unnatural thing for mother and daughter to
be separated."

"I don't know that, dear. The Bible says a man should leave mother and
father and cleave to his wife. Poor Violet was a discordant element in
that household. Mrs. Winstanley must feel much happier now she is away."

"I can't tell how she feels," answered the Vicar doubtfully; "but she
does not look so happy as she did when Violet was at home."

"The fact is she gives way too much," exclaimed active little Mrs.
Scobel, who had never given way in her life. "When she has a head-ache
she lies in bed, and has the venetian blinds kept down, just as if she
were dying. No wonder she looks pale and----"

"Etiolated," said the Vicar; "perishing for want of light. But I
believe it's moral sunshine that is wanted there, my dear Fanny, say
what you will."

Mr. Scobel was correct in his judgment. Pamela Winstanley was a most
unhappy woman--an unhappy woman without one tangible cause of
complaint. True that her daughter was banished; but she was banished
with the mother's full consent. Her personal extravagances had been
curtailed; but she was fain to admit that the curtailment was wise,
necessary, and for her own future benefit. Her husband was all
kindness; and surely she could not be angry with him if he seemed to
grow younger every day--rejuvenated by regular habits and rustic
life--while in her wan face the lines of care daily deepened, until it
would have needed art far beyond the power of any modern Medea to
conceal Time's ravages. Your modern Medeas are such poor
creatures--