ot
understand. What are poetic fancies?"

Lucia looked up in his face puzzled, and saw there an expression so
grave, pitying, tender, that her heart leaped up toward him, and then
sank back again.

"Why do you ask? Why need you know? You are no poet."

"And for that very cause I ask you."

"Oh, but," said she, guessing at what was in his mind, and trying,
woman-like, to play purposely at cross purposes, and to defend her
husband at all risks; "he has an extraordinary poetic faculty; all the
world agrees to that, Major Campbell."

"What matter?" said he. Lucia would have been very angry, and perhaps
ought to have been so; for what business of Campbell's was it whether
her husband were kind to her or not? But there was a deep sadness,
almost despair, in the tone, which disarmed her.

"Oh, Major Campbell, is it not a glorious thing to be a poet? And is it
not a glorious thing to be a poet's wife? Oh, for the sake of that--if I
could but see him honoured, appreciated, famous, as he will be some day!
Though I think" (and she spoke with all a woman's pride) "he is somewhat
famous now, is he not?"

"Famous? Yes," answered Campbell, with an abstracted voice, and then
rejoined quickly, "If you could but see that, what then?"

"Why then," said she, with a half smile (for she had nearly entrapped
herself into an admission of what she was determined to conceal)--"why
then, I should be still more what I am now, his devoted little wife, who
cares for nobody and nothing but putting his study to rights, and
bringing up his children."

"Happy children!" said he, after a pause, and half to himself, "who have
such a mother to bring them up."

"Do you really think so? But flattery used not to be one of your sins.
Ah, I wish you could give me some advice about how I am to teach them."

"So it is she who has the work of education, not he!" thought Campbell
to himself; and then answered gaily,--

"My dear madam, what can a confirmed old bachelor like me know about
children?"

"Oh, don't you know" (and she gave one of her pretty Irish laughs) "that
it is the old maids who always write the children's books, for the
benefit of us poor ignorant married women? But" (and she spoke earnestly
again) "we all know how wise and good you are. I did not know it in old
times. I am afraid I used to torment you when I was young and foolish."

"Where on earth can Mellot and Mr. Vavasour be?" asked Campbell.

"Oh, never mind! Mr. Mellot has