He had seated himself in a large easy-chair. "Come, darling," he said, drawing her to a seat upon his knee. Then with his arm about her waist, "Zoe, love, we are husband and wife, whom nothing but death can ever separate. Let us be kind to one another, kind and forbearing, so that when one is taken the other will have no cause for self-reproach."
"O Ned, don't talk of that," she sobbed with her arms about his neck, her cheek laid to his. "I'm sure it would kill me to lose you. You are all I have in the wide world."
"So I am, you poor little dear," he said, softly smoothing her hair, "and I ought to be always kind to you. But, indeed, Zoe, you have no need to be jealous of any other woman. I may like to talk with them and listen to their music, but when I want some one to love and pet, my heart turns to my own little wife."
"It was very foolish!" she said, penitently, "but I did so want you to myself to-night, and I'd worked so busily all day learning the lessons and that song you brought me, thinking to please you."
"Did you, dear? well, it was too bad in me to neglect you so, and even to forget to give you this, which I bought expressly for my dear little wife, while in the city to-day."
He took her hand as he spoke, and slipped a ring upon her finger.
"O Ned, thank you!" she exclaimed, lifting to his a face full of delight. "It's very pretty, and so good in you to remember to bring me something."
"Then shall we kiss and be friends, and try not to quarrel any more?"
"Yes; oh yes!" she said, offering her lips.
"I must have that song to-morrow," he said, caressing her again and again.