futile efforts to remove his boots, stretched himself,
boots and all, on a lounge in the sitting-room, and in two minutes was
as sound as one of the Seven Sleepers.

It was late next morning before either of the happy pair awoke. A vague
idea that there was a noise in the air aroused the gentleman about nine
o'clock. The dense fog in his brain, that a too liberal allowance of
rosy wine is too apt to engender, took some time to clear away; but when
it did, he became conscious that the noise was not part of his dreams,
but some one knocking loudly at the door.

Mr. Stanford staggered sleepily across the apartment, unlocked the door,
and admitted the brisk young woman who brought them their meals.

Mr. Stanford, yawning very much, proceeded to make his toilet. Twelve
months of matrimony had changed the handsome ex-lieutenant, and not for
the better. He looked thinner and paler; his eyes were sunken, and
encircled by dark halos, telling of night revels and morning headaches.
But that wonderful beauty that had magnetized Rose Danton was there
still; the features as perfect as ever; the black eyes as lustrous; all
the old graceful ease and nonchalance of manner characterized him yet.
But the beauty that had blinded and dazzled her had lost its power to
charm. She had been married to him a year--quite long enough to be
disenchanted. That handsome face might fascinate other foolish moths; it
had lost its power to dazzle her long, long ago. Perhaps the
disenchantment was mutual; for the pretty, rose-cheeked, starry-eyed
girl who had captivated his idle fancy had become a dream of the past,
and his wife was a pale, sickly, peevish invalid, with frowsy hair and
slipshod feet.

The clattering of the cups and saucers awoke the baby, who began
squalling dismally; and the baby's cries awoke the baby's mamma. Rose
got up, feeling cramped and unrefreshed, and came out into the parlour
with the infant in her arms. Her husband turned from a dreary
contemplation of the sun trying to force its way through a dull, yellow
fog, and dropped the curtain.

"Good-morning, my dear," said Mr. Stanford, pouring out a cup of tea.
"How are you to-day? Can't you make that disagreeable youngster hold his
confounded tongue?"

"What time did you get home last night?" demanded Mrs. Stanford, with
flashing eyes.

"It wasn't last night, my dear," replied Mr. Stanford, serenely,
buttering his roll; "it was sometime this morning, I believe."

"And of