self-willed little jade, and if I don't do just as she wants me
to--if I don't walk her chalk line--_presto!_ she goes off like a
rocket. To-night, d'ye see, I came home with the first volume of
Prescott's new work on Mexico--a perfect romance of a book, and
wanted to read it aloud to Cara. But no, she had something else in
her head, and told me, up and down, that she didn't want to hear any
of my dull old histories. I got mad, of course; I always get mad
when she comes athwart my hawes in this way.

"'Dull old histories!' said I, indignantly. 'There's more true life
and real interest in this book than in all the Wandering Jews or
Laura Matilda novels that ever were written; and I wish you'd throw
such miserable trash into the fire, and read books from which to get
some intelligence and strength of mind.' Whew! The way she combed my
hair for me at this was curious. I am a philosopher, and on these
occasions generally repeat to myself the wise saw--

'He that fights and runs away,
May live to fight another day.'

So, deeming discretion the better part of valour, I retreated in
disorder."

"That's bad," remarked Wilkinson, who knew something of the
character of his friend's wife.

"I know it's bad; but, then, I can't help myself. Cara has such a
queer temper, I never know how to take her."

"You ought to understand her peculiarities by this time, and bear