" You wonder if anybody was ever so happy before, or
ever will be so happy again.
You enter your name upon the hotel books as "Clarence ---- and Wife"; and
come back to look at it, wondering if anybody else has noticed it,--and
thinking that it looks remarkably well. You cannot help thinking that
every third man you meet in the hall wishes he possessed your wife; nor
do you think it very sinful in him to wish it. You fear it is placing
temptation in the way of covetous men to put Madge's little gaiters
outside the chamber-door at night.
Your home, when it is entered, is just what it should be,--quiet,
small,--with everything she wishes, and nothing more than she wishes.
The sun strikes it in the happiest possible way; the piano is the
sweetest-toned in the world; the library is stocked to a charm;--and
Madge, that blessed wife, is there, adorning and giving life to it all.
To think even of her possible death is a suffering you class with the
infernal tortures of the Inquisition. You grow twin of heart and of
purpose. Smiles seem made for marriage; and you wonder how you ever wore
them before!
* * * * *
So a year and more wears off of mingled home-life, visiting, and travel.
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