give than
receive."--_Epicurus_.

Most people thought it a strange thing that Mrs. Broderick spoke so
constantly of her husband. Mrs. Tolman, the Vicar's wife, who was a
frequent visitor, had been scandalised more than once, and had
expressed herself rather strongly on the subject to her husband.

"I know you think very highly of poor Mrs. Broderick, Stephen, and so
do I," she remarked one day. "Very few women would bear things in that
quiet, uncomplaining way, and the amount of work she gets through is
astonishing; but that perpetual dragging in of her husband's name seems
to me such bad taste."

"Upon my word, Isabella, I cannot say that I agree with you." And the
Vicar straightened himself on the rug in his favourite attitude. He
was a heavy, ponderous man, with an expression of shrewd good sense on
his face that won people's confidence. "I wish other women were as
faithful to their husband's memory, that flighty little Mrs. Martin,
for example."

"My dear Stephen, what an absurd idea! Fancy talking of Lydia Martin,
every one knows she is making a dead set at Mr. Germaine, although poor
Jack Martin has hardly been dead a year. She is Mrs. Broderick's exact
opposite. Please do not misunderstand me in this tiresome way," and
here Mrs. Tolman frowned slightly. "It is the manner in which Mrs.
Broderick speaks of her husband that offends my tastes. In my
opinion"--compressing her lips as she spoke--"our departed dear ones
are sacred, and should not be mentioned in a secular manner."

At the word "secular" there was a twinkle in the Vicar's eyes, though
he held his peace. And to tell the truth, Mrs. Tolman had been unable
to find the expression she needed.

"But with Mrs. Broderick it is 'Fergus here' and 'Fergus there,' just
as though he were alive and in the next room, and she was expecting him
in every moment. Sometimes in the twilight it makes me quite creepy to
hear her speaking in that sprightly voice, just as though she were
making believe that he heard her."

"Poor soul!" was the Vicar's answer to this; but he was used to keeping
his thoughts to himself--he and Mrs. Broderick understood each other
perfectly. She had not a firmer friend in the world, unless it was her
kind physician, Dr. Randolph. "Poor soul!" he repeated when his wife
in silent dudgeon had retired from the room.

"It is not likely that Isabella would understand her; Mrs. Broderick is
the bravest and the brightest woman I