burden of Phil's low-spoken words.

"Fie!" said Margaret, playfully, one evening. "You must not be
perfectly happy. There must be some cloud in the sky; some annoyance
in business, or such trifle. Perfect happiness is dangerous, mamma
says. It can't last. It forbodes calamity to come. 'Tis an old belief,
and she vows 'tis true."

"Why, my poor mother held that belief, too. I fear she had little
perfect happiness to test it by; but she had calamities enough. And
Bert Russell's mother was saying the same thing the other day. 'Tis a
delusion common to mothers, I think. I sha'n't let it affect my
felicity. I should be ungrateful to call my contentment less than
perfect. And if calamity comes, 'twill not be owing to my happiness."

"As for that, I can't imagine any calamity possible to us--unless
something should occur to hinder us from going to London. But nothing
in the world shall do that, of course."

'Twas upon this conversation that Tom and I broke in, having met as I
returned from the custom-house, he from the college.

"Oho!" cried Tom, with teasing mirth, "still love-making! I tell you
what it is, brother Phil, 'tis time you two had eyes for something
else besides each other. The town is talking of how engrossed Margaret
is in you, that she ignores the existence of everybody else."

"Let 'em talk," said Margaret, lightly, with an indifference free from
malice. "Who cares about their existence? They're not so interesting,
with their dull teas and stupid gossip of one another! A set of