r, an unblemished character. Every
morning he came to his office from one of the most pleasant little
cottage homes in the world; and if you had opened the little front
gate, and gone up through the shrubbery to the house, you would have
seen a Mrs. Leland, somewhere in-doors, and she as intelligent and
pleasant a lady as you ever saw. You would have seen, moreover,
tumbling about the grass, or up to the eyes in some mischief, as
noble-looking a little fellow of some three years old as you could
well have wished for your own son.

This all looks well enough, but there is something wrong. Not in the
house. No; it is as pleasant a cottage as you could wish--plenty of
garden, peas and honeysuckles climbing up everywhere, green grass,
white paint, Venetian blinds, comfortable furniture.

Not in Willie, the little scamp. No; rosy, healthy, good head,
intelligent eyes, a fine specimen he was of an only son. Full of
mischief, of course, he was. Overflowing with uproar and questions
and mischief. Mustachios of egg or butter-milk or molasses after
each meal, as a matter of course. Cut fingers, bumped forehead, torn
clothes, all day long. Yet a more affectionate, easily-managed child
never was.

The mischief was not in Lucy, the Mrs. Leland. I assure you it was
not. Leland knew, to his heart's core, that a lovelier, more
prudent, sensible, intelligent wife it was impossible to exist.
Thrifty, loving, lady-like, right and true throughout.

Where was this mischief? Look at Leland. He is in perpetual motion.
Reading, writing, walking the streets, he is always fast, in dead
earnest. Somewhat _too_ fast. There is a certain slowness about your
strong man. You never associate the idea of mental depth and power
with your quick-stepping man. You cannot conceive of a Roman emperor
or a Daniel Webster as a slight, swift man. The bearing of a man's
body is the outward emblem of the bearing of his soul. Leland is
rather slight, rather swift. He meets you in his rapid walk. He
stops, grasps your hand, asks cordially after your health. There is
an open, warm feeling in the man. No hypocrisy whatever. Yet he
talks too fast. He don't give you half a chance to answer one of his
rapid questions, before he is asking another totally different. He
is not at ease. He keeps you from being at ease. You feel it
specially in his house. He is too cordial, too full of effort to
make your visit pleasant to you. You like him, yet you don't feel
altogethe