se; the title, 'Sweet Bells Jangled,'
ran in sprawling silver letters from corner to corner of the covers,
through a medley of cracked bells and withered hyacinths in dull gold;
the general effect being more bold than pleasing. Mabel was just about
to exclaim sympathetically, 'What a frightful binding they've given
you, dear;' when Mark informed her, with some complacency, that it was
his own design. 'Nowadays, you see,' he explained, 'you want something
to catch the eye, or you won't be read!' Inwardly Mabel could not help
wondering that he could condescend to such a device, or think it
necessary in his own case. 'Look at the fly-leaf,' he said, and she
opened the first volume, and read the printed dedication, '_To My
Wife._' 'I thought that must bring me luck,' he said; 'and now,
darling, do you know what you are going to do? You are going to put
away all those confounded letters and sit down here, and read the
opening chapters carefully, and tell me what you think of them.' For
till then he had made continual excuses for not showing her any
portion of his new work, either in manuscript or proof, from mixed
motives of vanity and diffidence.

Mabel laughed with affectionate pride at his anxiety: 'This is what
comes of marrying a great author!' she said; 'go away and let me begin
at once, and tell you at lunch how I enjoyed it.'

'No,' said Mark despotically, 'I'm going to stay here--or you might
try to skip.'

'But I can't allow that,' she protested; 'suppose I find I'm obliged
to skip--suppose it's a terrible disappointment? No, you ridiculous
Mark, I didn't mean it--stay if you like, I'm not afraid of being
disappointed--though I really would enjoy it best in solitude!'

Mark insisted; he felt that at last he was about to be reinstated in
his own opinion, he could wait no longer for the assurance of triumph;
when he saw with his own eyes the effect of his genius upon Mabel,
when he read the startled delight and growing admiration in her face,
then at last he would know that he was not actually an impostor!

There are many methods of self-torture, but perhaps few more ingenious
and protracted than submitting the result of one's brain-work to a
person whose good opinion we covet, and watching the effect. Mark
imposed it on himself, nevertheless, chiefly because in his heart he
had very little fear of the result. He took a rocking-chair and sat
down opposite Mabel, trying to read the paper; by-and-by, as she read