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NOT SATISFIED.

She was as fond as any other woman of admiration and affection. She had only to look into the eyes of her former lover to assure herself that there was no lack of either in his feelings toward her. But for womanly pride and wifely honor she would receive them not. So Ruel Wylie took the hand she gave him at parting, with the respect due to the wife of another man, and gravely bowed, and pressed his lips upon it. “Good-bye, Mrs. Nichols: for the sake of the k past we may be friends."

“Always friends,” echoed the lady’s soft voice: and he felt it would be nothing more.

“Oh, dear, dear! I wish he hadn’t come. I would I hadn’t seen him,” murmured the little lady, as she paced up and down her chamber, with the tears staining her cheeks, and quick cobs heaving her breast.

“It was so hard to refuse that ring, and it would have been easy enough to deceive Hugh about it, for he’s not very penetrating at the best.

“But I am his wife, and I couldn’t make up my mind to tell a lie, or even deceive him when he has such confidence in me.

“I don’t love my husband though. I don’t believe I do the least bit in the world; and I should have been happier to have lived in a cot¬ tage, and on a crust with Ruel, than to be the mistress of all this splendor.

“How handsome he looked! how my heart ached as I bade him good-bye—there, there goes Hugh’s ring of the bell,” and a bitter, almost fearful expression darkened the lady’s face. “I’m beginning almost to loathe—I believe yet I shall hate him.”

There came the sound of heavy feet along the hall, and the next moment the door was abruptly thrust open.

“Oh, Hugh, I think you might have courtesy enough to knock at the door, before you storm my chamber in that way,” was the ungracious reception which met the gentleman.

“Well, I’m sorry if I burst in upon you, but to tell the truth, I’m quite worn out,” and Mr. Nichols threw himself into his wife’s cushioned easy-chair. “Do come here, Rosaline.”

“No, thank you; if you choose to sit, I feel more like walking; only I must beg you not to talk to me.”

“Why, Rosy, you’re in a bad-humor tonight, I think,” leaning his head heavily against the cushions.

“Very possibly.”

“Well, do dear, come here, put your hand on my head. It bur s and aches horribly, and somehow I feel as if the soft touch of your ﬁngers would soothe and cool it.”

Under ordinary circumstances Mrs. Nichols would have complied with this request, but her whole soul was jarred and embittered by the events of the afternoon, and her husband's entrance had been most inopportune.

As it was, however, she answered coldly, “I can’t do your head any good, Hugh, as I’m not used to turning nurse. If it aches, you can go down and get Rachel to bathe it for you."

Hugh Nichols rose up. His wife had stung him at last, for fond as he was of her, and indulgent to her humors, he was not usually an easily led or weak man.

“Rosaline,” he said, almost sternly, “when your head has ached, and you told me of it, I would sooner have cut off my right hand than answered you thus,” and he left the room.

Mrs. Nichols’ conscience smote her so much for a moment, that she was half inclined to spring after her husband and beg his pardon; but her own selfishness triumphed.

“If his head does ache, so does my heart, and I can’t wait on him now,” she muttered to herself.

Mr. Nichols did not present himself at supper, and the domestic said he had gone up to his room, and was in a sound sleep: so his wife con¬ cluded not to wake him.

In the evening, some friends came out from the city. As Mr. Nichols’ residence was only a few miles from this, the hostess was occupied until a late hour with her guests; and on being apprised of their arrival, her husband had sent down the apology that he was too ill to see them; “and turned over had gone right off to sleep again,” muttered the domestic, in an undertone, to Mrs. Nichols. Whereupon, that lady thought her husband very discourteous to herself and her company.

After they left, however, she again sent up to his room, to learn how he was, and received in reply that “he was no better, and didn’t wish to be disturbed again until morning.”

“How very unusual it is for Hugh to send me such an unkind message!” murmured Mrs. Nichols, that night, as she drew the pins from her golden hair, “I presume he was offended because I made him such a reply when he told me his head ached. Well, I can’t help it now, and I guess it will all be right in the morning.”

But, the next morning, Mr. Nichols was unable to leave his bed, and made such incoherent replies to his wife, when she visited his chamber, that she immediately concluded he could not be