become tired. There was always something new to be done or learned or
unlearned: his day was full to overflowing. He was a man of family!

The wife of his bosom was tranquillity itself. She was enjoying herself.
When not amusing herself by watching Brock's misfortunes, she was
napping or reading or sending out for cool drinks. With all the
selfishness of a dutiful wife, she was content to shift responsibilities
upon that ever convenient and useful creature--a detached sister.

Brock sent telegrams for her from cities along the way,--Ulm, Munich,
Salzburg, and others,--all meant for the real Roxbury in London, but
sent to a fictitious being in Great Russell Street, the same having been
agreed upon by at least two of the conspirators. It mattered little that
she repeated herself monotonously in regard to the state of health of
herself and Tootles. Roxbury would doubtless enjoy the protracted
happiness brought on by these despatches, even though they got him out
of bed or missed him altogether until they reached him in a bunch the
next day. He may also have been gratified to hear from Munich that
Roxbury was perfectly lovely. She said, in the course of her longest
despatch, that she was so glad that the baby was getting to like her
father more and more as the day wore on.

At one station Brock narrowly escaped missing the train. He swung
himself aboard as the cars were rolling out of the sheds. As he sank,
hot and exhausted, into the seat opposite his wife and her sister, the
former looked up from her book, yawning ever so faintly, and asked:

"Are you enjoying your honeymoon, Roxbury?"

"Immensely!" he exclaimed, but not until he had searched for and caught