OUR HONEYMOON.
MONDAY, MAY 27, 18—
"Tom's a good fellow,"—said Frederick, when he got to bed.
"I don't want to hear anything of Tom now," said I; for suddenly I felt as if I could have—well, I don't know what; but I did for the minute almost hate the man.
"He goes very early to-morrow. By the first coach, love. I've promised to see him off."
"How very kind of you, Fred;" and I could almost have cried, he seemed as if it was so easy for him to try to deceive me. "Going to see him off? Then—for it's very late; for my part, I thought the man would never go—then you'd better go to sleep, Fred; that you may be up. Otherwise you'll be very tired, dear; very tired."
"Think so?" said Fred, trying to be cool: for I knew it was only trying. "Think so?"
"I'm sure so," said I, worried and restless and vexed: not that I stirred.
"Well, then, love, good night," said Fred.