Margaret had been in Europe a couple of years and I had just been over to
bring her home, and we were now expecting to reach New York in a day or
two.

Margaret and I were the best of friends. Indeed, we had loved each other
from our earliest recollection. No formal words of betrothal had ever
passed between us, but for years we had spoken of our future marriage as
naturally as if we were the most regularly engaged couple in the world.

"Walter," asked Margaret in her impulsive way, "at what temperature does
mercury melt?"

"Well, to hazard a guess," I replied, "I should say about one degree above
its freezing point. Why, do you think of making an experiment?"

"Yes, on you. And I am going to begin by being very frank with you. You
have made me a number of hurried visits during my stay in Europe, but we
have seen more of each other in the course of this voyage than for two
long years. I trust you will not be offended when I say I hoped to find
you changed. I have never spoken to you about this, even in my letters,
and it is only because I am a little older now, and because my love for
you has increased with every day of life, that I have the courage to frame
these words."

"Do tell me what it is," I exclaimed, thoroughly alarmed at her serious
manner. "Let me know how I have disappointed you and I will make what
amends I can. Tell me the nature of the change you have been looking for
and I will begin the transformation at once, before my character becomes
fixed."