at is making you unhappy, child?"

"It is so dreadful," she said, "to think that I, who ought to have
known you so well--I, your betrothed wife--have been thinking that
you were so mean as to be jealous; for I did think it was that,
John, when you made light of the doings of the hero I had been
thinking about so much, and would not allow that he had done
anything particular. I thought that you were jealous, John; and now
I know what you have done, and why you spoke so, I feel I am
altogether unworthy of you."

"Well, Mary, I never thought you were a little goose, before. What
nonsense you are talking! It was only natural you should have
thought I was jealous; and I should have been jealous, if it had
been anyone else you were praising so much. It was my fault, for
not telling you at once. Concealments are always stupid; but I had
thought that it would give you a pleasant surprise, when you got
home, to hear about it; but instead of causing you pleasure, I have
caused you pain. I was not vexed, in the slightest; I was rather
amused, when you answered me so curtly."

"I think it was cruel of you, John, to let me go on thinking badly
of you, and showing yourself in so unworthy a light. That does not
make it any the less wrong of me. I ought to have believed in you."

"You are making a mountain out of a molehill, Mary, and I won't
hear any such nonsense. You heard an absurd story, as to what
someone had been doing, and you naturally made a hero of him. You
were hurt by my speaking slightingly of this hero of yours, and
naturally thought I was jealous at hearing such praises of another
from my betrothed wife. It was all perfectly natural. I was not in
the least offended with you, or put out in any way; except that I
was vexed with myself for not telling you, at once, that all these
fables related to your cousin John.

"Now, dry your eyes, and don't think any more about it. Go and pick
two of the finest bunches of grapes you can find, and we will eat
them together."

But it was some time before Mary recovered her brightness. The
changes which the last few months had made almost depressed her. It
was but a year ago that John and she had been boy and girl,
together; now he had become a man, had done great deeds, was looked
upon by many as one chosen for the deliverance of the nation. Mary
felt that she, too, had aged; but the change in her was as nothing
to that in her old playfellow. It was but a year ago she had been