7

repeatedly kissing his sweet; dear mamma, he crept up coldly and timidly, and held up his little mouth, which Mary as coldly kissed. At this moment she caught her husband's eye fixed on her. What a look! It was one of reproach, almost of anger. She felt it chill her very heart. He did not say a word, but coming forward took the little boy in his arms, and carried him, himself, to the nursery. Not a volume of words could more fully have expressed the displeasure of her husband. That night Mary's pillow was drenched in tears--bitter tears. Her conscience smote her--but she suppressed its monitions, by aggravating what she called (not what she felt) the undeserved displeasure of her husband. The next morning when they met at table the looks and manners of each were cold, and as Mary handed the large cup to Mr. Murray, she coloured and trembled, and he, instead of his usual pleased and bland manner on receiving any little kind attention, took it silently as if not noticing the change. Through the day Mary's spirits were much dejected--to her children, particularly, her manner was unkind. Charles marked her disturbance, and rallied her on what he called a matrimonial fracas.
"Your lord and master has been a little spoiled, my good lady, or he never would be so easily out of temper. The way to break him of these freaks is not to humor him as you have done. Had I been you he should not have had his favourite cup for a month to come."
"I have been the spoiled child," replied Mary, her eyes swimming in tears. "Oh, Charles!" exclaimed she, "unkindness would soon break my heart!" She clasped her hands over her eyes and wept with unrestrained emotion.
Charles took these hands, wiped the tears from them and looking fondly in her face.--
"How cruel," said he, "thus to distress you. Come, my dear sister, let us walk--the air will revive you. This husband of yours wants tutoring; remmber what I say, do not spoil him by concession, or you will become a very slave to his caprices."
Mary's spirits were revived by air and exercise, until again dejected by the presence of her husband, who still looked thoughtful and absent.
She felt glad when he left the house--she felt as if a dark, heavy cloud had passed away, and the sun shone forth. Mr. Murray's affection lay at the very bottom of his heart, and seldom overflowed in words or caresses, except to his children. Of an evening when he came home they would spring to his arms, cling round his neck, and sit on his knees. It was only with them his quietude and placidity yielded to any thing like gaiety. But their mirth was contagious, and he often found himself romping and playing with them in a manner litle accordant with his natural gravity. Tutored by their gentle mother they were never obstreperous or rude; though nothing less than her continual restraining influence could so have regulated their exuberant spirits and hasty tempers.
"I often think, Mary," said her husband to her on one occasion, "that were it not for your training, Henry would be a sad little tyrant; he has a terrible temper."
Too soon this good father found this opinion verified. Often when he now came home he found the child quarrelling with his little sister; her play-things broken--her frock torn--her face streaming with tears. One day, particularly, he felt really shocked at the condition in which he found the children. Henry in his passion had thrown a piece of broken china at his sister,--it had cut her cheek, and the blood was streaming from the wound. After ascertaining the cause, he hastily enquired for their mother, and how they came to be left alone.
"She has gone to walk with uncle Charles," said Meta.
"But has she not given you your lessons this morning."
"She gave us holiday," said Henry, gruffly, not yet recovered from his father's correction.
"Holiday!" said his father; "I did not know you had holidays."
"Oh yes," said the little Meta, "Mamma gives us holidays very often--she is very good, she lets us play almost all day long."
Mr. Murray said nothing. But after reproving and reconciling the children, and giving them in charge to his mother, he took his hat and walked out.
Doubts, dreadful doubts, flashed across his mind--flashed like lightning from a dark cloud, then left it in obscurity. No it could not be. His good, his lovely, his pure-minded wife--the hitherto dotingly fond mother of his precious children. No it could not be. And his friend, his grateful, obliged friend! The thing was impossible! He would dismiss it from his mind. But what could it be that had thus changed his wife? Doubtless some household matter had disturbed her. He had observed that of late their servants had been several times changed--this of course had given her more care--taken up more of her time, and might have produced considerable vexation, and consequently diverted her attention from her children, and made her temper more irritable. This was so natural that he could not blame her--she was to be excused for her little negligences to him and the children--he must try by increased kindness on his part to sooth this irritation--to compensate her for her domestic troubles. Women had trying duties to perform--it was no wonder their gentleness and patience sometimes gave way. He accused himself of not having been sufficiently kind and attentive--and after a long, lonely walk returned home full of resolutions by increased kindness to dissipate the disturbance under which he perceived his wife laboured. Every now and then in spite of himself the same dreadful doubts would shoot through his mind--but he as quickly banished them. Still they so far affected him as to make him watch more than he ever had before the looks and manners of both Mary and Charles. There was nothing he could find fault with in either. When he was present Mary appeared entirely engaged with her work, whilst he and Charles coversed with little interruption from either of the ladies. As he was absent all day, he knew not how his family passed their time. He knew not that whole mornings were spent together by Charles and Mary, while the household cares were devolved on his mother,--that of afternoons they rambled until near the time of his return. But what most distressed and perplexed him was Mary's altered manner