When this last picture first presents itself to my vivid imagination I am in bed, and the idea overcomes me to such a degree that I find myself presently in floods of tears, unable altogether to suppress my sobs.
In a minute or two Marmaduke wakes and turns uneasily.
"What is the matter, Phyllis," he asks, anxiously. "Is anything wrong with you, my darling?"
"No, no, nothing," I answer hastily, and bury my nose in the pillow.
"But you are crying," he remonstrates, reaching out a kindly hand in the darkness that is meant for my face, but alights unexpectedly upon the back of my head. "Tell me what is troubling you, my pet."
"Nothing at all," I say again; "I was only thinking." Here I stifle a foolish sigh born of my still more foolish tears.
"Thinking of what?"
"Of Billy," I reply reluctantly. And then, though he says nothing, and though I cannot see his face, I know my husband is offended.
He goes back to his original position, and is soon again asleep, while I lie awake for half an hour longer, worrying my brain with trying to discover what there can be to vex Marmaduke in my weeping over Billy.
Still I am happy, utterly so, as one must be who is without care or sorrow, whose lightest wish meets instant fulfilment, and less and less frequently am I haunted by the vague fear of ingratitude—by the thought of how poor a return I make for all the good showered upon me, as I see how sufficient I am for my husband's happiness: while only on rare occasions does he betray his passionate longing for a more perfect hold upon my heart by the suppressed but evident jealousy with which he regards my love for my family.