course you were drunk as usual!"

"My love, pray don't speak so loudly; they'll hear you down stairs,"
remonstrated the gentleman. "Really, I believe I had been imbibing a
little too freely. I hope I did not disturb you. I made as little noise
as possible on purpose, I assure you. I even slept in my boots, not
being in a condition to take them off. Wash your face, my dear, and comb
your hair--they both need it very much--and come take some breakfast. If
that baby of yours won't hold its tongue, please to throw it out of the
window."

Mrs. Stanford's reply was to sink into the rocking-chair and burst into
a passion of tears.

"Don't, pray!" remonstrated Mr. Stanford; "one's enough to cry at a
time. Do come and have some breakfast. You're hysterical this morning,
that is evident, and a cup of tea will do you good."

"I wish I were dead!" burst out Rose, passionately. "I wish I had been
dead before I ever saw your face!"

"I dare say, my love. I can understand your feelings, and sympathize
with them perfectly."

"Oh, what a fool I was!" cried Rose, rocking violently backward and
forward; "to leave my happy home, my indulgent father, my true and
devoted lover, for you! To leave wealth and happiness for poverty, and
privation, and neglect, and misery! Oh, fool! fool! fool! that I was!"

"Very true, my dear," murmured Mr. Stanford sympathetically. "I don't
mind confessing that I was a fool myself. You cannot regret your
marriage any more than I do mine."

This was a little too much. Rose sprang up, flinging the baby into the
cradle, and faced her lord and master with cheeks of flame and eyes of
fire.

"You villain!" she cried. "You cruel, cold-blooded villain, I hate you!
Do you hear, Reginald Stanford, I hate you! You have deceived me as
shamefully as ever man deceived woman! Do you think I don't know where
you were last night, or whom you were with? Don't I know it was with
that miserable, degraded Frenchwoman--that disgusting Madame
Millefleur--whom I would have whipped through the streets of London, if
I could."

"I don't doubt it, my dear," murmured Mr. Stanford, still unruffled by
his wife's storm of passion. "Your gentle sex are famous for the mercy
they always show to their fairer sisters. Your penetration does you
infinite credit, Mrs. Stanford. I was with Madame Millefleur."

Rose stood glaring at him, white and panting with rage too intense for
words. Reginald Stanford stood up, meeting her fierce reg