loss. She felt that if her new mother should straighten out her white
bow and regard her with admiration, it would be because of her own
self, and the credit which she, Maria, reflected upon her. Still, she
reflected how charming she looked. Self-love is much better than
nothing for a lonely soul.

That night Maria realized that she was in the second place, so far as
her father was concerned. Ida, in her rose-colored robes, dispensing
hospitality in his home, took up his whole attention. She was really
radiant. She sang and played twice for the company, and her perfectly
true high soprano filled the whole house. To Maria it sounded as
meaningless as the trill of a canary-bird. In fact, when it came to
music, Ida, although she had a good voice, had the mortification of
realizing that her simulation of emotion failed her. Harry did not
like his wife's singing. He felt like a traitor, but he could not
help realizing that he did not like it. But the moment Ida stopped
singing, he looked at her, and fairly wondered that he had married
such a beautiful creature. He felt humble before her. Humility was
not a salutary condition of mind for him, but this woman inspired it
now, and would still more in the future. In spite of his first wife's
scolding, her quick temper, he had always felt himself as good as she
was. The mere fact of the temper itself had served to give him a
sense of equality and, perhaps, superiority, but this woman never
showed temper. She never failed to respond with her stereotyped smile
to everything that was said. She seemed to have no faults at all, to
realize none in herself, and not to admit the possibility of any one
else doing so.

Harry felt himself distinctly in the wrong beside such unquestionable
right. He even did not think himself so good-looking as he had