"Don't say so,--we can always try."

"Not this. I could at first. But to be always treated like a baby,--and
if I express any contrary opinion, or show that I've a mind of my
own,--a sick baby! I can tell you this comes pretty hard three hundred
and sixty-five days in a year! Oh, I wish I were a free woman! There! I
am going to stop now. But you know."

I was only too glad to be interrupted by our two husbands. Lulu ran
up-stairs,--I supposed, to bathe her eyes and compose herself. She,
however, was down again in a minute, with some drapery which she wound
about her after the fashion Lady Hamilton was said to do, and
represented, like her, the Muses, and various statues. With the curtain
and one light she managed to give a very statuesque effect. Mr. Lewis
was evidently very proud of her grace and talent, and she had a pretty,
wilful, bird-like way with him, that was fascinating, and did not seem,
as I thought it must really be, mechanical. I felt, more than ever, how
idle it must be to talk with her. The affectionate respect, the joyful
uplooking of wifehood, was not to be taught by words, nor to be taught,
in fact, any way. Mr. Lewis's manner to his wife, which I criticized
carefully, was always tender and dignified. And, from my knowledge of
him, I felt sure that his expression was that of genuine feeling.
Evidently he did not understand her feelings at all. She longed for
encouragement and improvement. He looked at her as a lovely child only.

Being a minister's wife, I felt called on to labor in my vocation, and
from time to time watch the pliant moment, and endeavor to lead Lulu's
mind to the foundation of all truth. But, surely, never fell seed on
such stony ground. To be sure, the flowers sprang up. Dewy, rich, and
running, they climbed over the rocks beneath; but they shed their
perfume, and shrank dead in a day, leaving the stones bare. I was
discouraged about sowing seed.

The Lewises had been but a few weeks in Boston, when Lulu brought Mr.
Remington in one morning to make a call. He was dressed in black, and
told me he had been a widower six months. His bright, genial face and
healthful nature seemed not to have sustained any severe shock, however,
and he spoke with great composure of his loss.

He was at Mr. Lewis's a great deal. It seemed as a matter of course. As
an accomplished man, with great powers of entertaining, he must
naturally be acceptable there; but we were too much occupied with family