piazza, as I passed through the neighborhood drive,
with a spray of apple-blossoms in her hand. For the moment she seemed
to embody all the maiden purity of the scene, all its promise. I said,
laughing:

"We shall have to have you painted as spring."

"But spring isn't painted at all," she replied, holding up the
apple--blossoms, and coming down the piazza with a dancing step.

"And so it won't last. We want something permanent," I was beginning to
say, when a carriage passed, going to our house. "I think that must be
Henderson."

"Ah!" she exclaimed. Her sunny face clouded at once, and she turned to
go in as I hurried away.

It was Mr. Henderson, and there was at least pretense enough of business
to occupy us, with Mr. Morgan, the greater part of the day. It was not
till late in the afternoon that Henderson appeared to remember that
Margaret was in the neighborhood, and spoke of his intention of calling.
My wife pointed out the way to him across the grounds, and watched him
leisurely walking among the trees till he was out of sight.

"What an agreeable man Mr. Henderson is!" she said, turning to me; "most
companionable; and yet--and yet, my dear, I'm glad he is not my husband.
You suit me very well." There was an air of conviction about this
remark, as if it were the result of deep reflection and comparison,
and it was emphasized by the little possessory act of readjusting my
necktie--one of the most subtle of female flatteries.

"But who wanted him to be your husband?" I asked. "Married women have
the oddest habit of going about the world picking out the men they
would not like to have married. Do they need continually to justify
themselves?"

"No; they congratulate themselves. You never can understand."

"I confess I cannot. My first thought about an attractive woman whose
acquaintance I make is not that I am glad I did not marry her."

"I dare say not. You are all inconsistent, you men. But you are the
least so of any man in the world, I do believe."

It would be difficult to say whether the spring morning seemed more or
less glorious to Margaret when she went indoors, but its serenity was
gone.

It was like the premonition in nature of a change. She put the apple
blossoms in water and placed the jug on the table, turning it about half
a dozen times, moving her head from side to side to get the effect.
When it was exactly right, she said to her aunt, who sat sewing in the
bay-window, in a perfectly i