"My darling, no. Who ever thought of such a thing? Who has been saying or writing anything to distress you, Sarah?"
"Did I ever have a letter from anybody, and you know nothing about it, John?" she demanded, plaintively.
"I am quite sure you never did," replied John, gallantly venturing an assertion which, undoubtedly, he had no means of confirming or proving.
"They told me, John, when I—when you—when you and I went to church together, that I was only deceiving you—at least, some of them did; and that I shouldn't be a true wife to you."
"Whoever told you so, told a great falsehood," said John, warmly. "No truer wife than you ever lived; and if I were you, I wouldn't think about such rubbish."
"But I can't help it sometimes, John, though I don't talk about it to vex you, for I know I haven't been everything that another might have been to you. I couldn't, John; but you have had the best I had to give." And here again poor Sarah moaned sadly.
"I am sure of it, Sarah; and I have never asked for more. But why do you bring this up? And why do you stand there when I am keeping my seat, like a stupid clown as I am? And, bless me, if the fire isn't all but out too! I declare forgot all about it."
So saying, John sprang from his chair, and gallantly taking his wife's unoccupied hand, gently led her to it.
"Do sit down, my dear; you do not often honour me with your presence in this dull room."
And thus gently constrained, Sarah took the seat, still holding in her hand the open letter.