hospitality one to another without grudging.'"

"I'll try not to. I'll be as good to her as I can, without feeling that
I am acting insincerely."

"And that is all I ask, love. Your perfect freedom from any thing
approaching to deceit is one of your greatest charms, in your husband's
eyes," he said, tenderly caressing her. "It would, I am sure, be quite
impossible for me to love a wife in whose absolute truth and sincerity I
had not entire confidence."

"And you do love me, your foolish, faulty little wife?" she said, in a
tone that was a mixture of assertion and inquiry, while her lovely eyes
gazed searchingly into his.

"Dearly, dearly, my sweet!" he said, smiling fondly down upon her. "And
now to bed, lest these bright eyes and rosy cheeks should lose something
of their brilliance and beauty."

"Suppose they should," she said, turning slightly pale, as with sudden
pain. "O Ned! if I live, I must some day grow old and gray and wrinkled,
my eyes dim and sunken: shall you love me then, darling?"

"Better than ever, love," he whispered, holding her closer to his heart;
"for how long we shall have lived and loved together! We shall have come
to be as one indeed, each with hardly a thought or feeling unshared by
the other."