in the same house with her husband, whose third wife she was, they had long been separated, only meeting at their joyless meals. Mrs. Ready considered her husband a very stupid animal, and did not fail to make both him and her friends acquainted with her opinion.

“There is a fate in these things,” she observed, “or you would never see a person of my superior intellect united to a creature like that.”

The world recognised a less important agency in the ill-starred union. Mrs. Ready was poor, and had already numbered thirty years, when she accepted the hand of her wealthy and despised partner.

No wonder that Flora, who almost adored her husband, and was a woman of simple habits and pretensions, should dislike Mrs. Ready: it would have been strange indeed if persons so differently constituted, could have met without antagonism.

Mrs. Ready’s harsh unfeminine voice and manners; her assumption of learning and superiority, without any real title to either, were very offensive to a proud sensitive mind, which rejected with disdain the patronage of such a woman. Flora had too much self-respect, not to say vanity, to tolerate the insolence of Mrs. Ready. She had met all her advances towards a closer intimacy with marked coldness; which, instead of repelling, seemed only to provoke a repetition of the vulgar, forcing familiarity, from which she intuitively shrank.

“Mrs. Lyndsay,” she was wont to say, when that lady was absent, “is a young person of some literary taste, and with the advice and assistance of a friend (herself of course) she may one day become an accomplished woman.”

Lyndsay was highly amused at the league, offensive and defensive, carried on by his wife and Mrs. Ready, who was the only blue stocking in the place; and he was wont to call her Flora’s Mrs. Grundy.

But Mrs. Grundy is already in the room, and Flora has risen to meet her, and proffer the usual meaningless salutations of the day. To these her visitor returns no answer, overwhelmed as she is with astonishment and grief.

“Mrs. Lyndsay!” she exclaimed, sinking into the easy chair placed for her accommodation, and lifting up her hands in a tragic ecstasy—“Is it true—true, that you are going to leave us? I cannot believe it; it is so absurd—so ridiculous—the idea of your going to Canada. Do tell me that I am misinformed; that it is one of old Kitson’s idle pieces of gossip; for really I have not been well since I heard it.

”Mrs. Ready paused for breath, and applied her handkerchief to her eyes.

Flora remained silent and embarrassed. What could she say? She placed no confidence in the grief of the weeping lady, and despised the affectation of her tears—till she gasped forth—

“Do not leave me in suspense; I would rather hear the truth at once. Are you really going to Canada?”

“I believe so. That is, if no untoward circumstances arise to prevent it.”

“Good heavens!—And you can regard such a dreadful event with such stoical indifference? Why does not your mother exert her authority, to make you give up such a mad project?”

“My mother would never interfere with my husband’s wishes, particularly when she considers them reasonable, and knows that no real objections can be offered on the subject.”

“But think of the dreadful sacrifice!”

“Such sacrifices are made every day. Emigration, Mrs. Ready, is a matter of necessity, not of choice. Mr. Lyndsay thinks it necessary for us to take this step, and I have no doubt that he is right. Did I consult my own feelings, I should certainly prefer staying at home.”

“Of course you would, and you affect this unconcern on purpose to hide an aching heart. My dear, you cannot deceive me; I see through it all. I pity you, my sweet friend; I sympathise with you, from my very soul; I know what your real feelings are; I can realize it all.”

Flora remained silent. She certainly did wish that Mrs. Ready occupied any other place in the United Kingdom at that moment than the comfortable seat in her easy chair. But what could she do? She could not inform the lady that she was tired of her company, and wished to be alone. That would be considered an act of ill-breeding of the most flagrant description; in common courtesy she was compelled to act a lie.

Rather irritated at the small impression her eloquence had made upon her companion, Mrs. Ready removed the cambric screen from her face, on which not a trace of grief could be found, and clasping her hands vehemently together, continued,—

“Your husband is mad, to draw you away from all your friends at a moment’s warning! I would remonstrate—I would not go; I would exert a proper spirit, and force him to abandon this Quixotic expedition.”

“You speak hastily, Mrs. Ready. Why should I attempt to prevent an undertaking in which I most cordially concur, and which Mr. Lyndsay thinks would greatly benefit his family?”

“Nonsense! I hate, I repudiate such passive obedience, as beneath the dignity of woman! I am none of your soft bread-and-butter wives, who consider it their duty to become the mere echo of their husbands. If I did not wish to go, no tyrannical lord of the creation, falsely so called, should compel me to act against my inclinations.”

“Compulsion is not necessary: on this subject we both agree.”

“Oh, yes, I see how it is!” with a contemptuous curl of the lip, “you aspire to the character of a good, dutiful wife,—to become an example of enduring patience to all the refractory conjugals in the place, myself among the rest. I understand it all. How amiable some people can be at the expense of others!”

Flora was thunderstruck. “Indeed, Mrs. Ready, I meant no reflection upon you. My words had no personal meaning; I never talk at any one.”

“Oh, certainly not! You are not aware,” with a strong sneer, “of the differences that exist between Mr. Ready and me (and which will continue to exist, as long as mind claims a superiority over matter); that we are only husband and wife in name. But I forgive you.”

“You have nothing to forgive, Mrs. Ready,” said Flora, indignantly; “I never trouble my head with your private affairs—they cannot possibly concern me.”

This gave rise to a scene. Mrs. Ready, who lived in an element of strife, delighted in scenes.

“Oh, no,” she continued, eagerly clutching at Flora’s last words, “you are too selfishly engrossed with your own happiness to have the least sympathy for the sorrows of a friend. Ah, well!—It’s early days with you yet! Let a few short years of domestic care pass over your head, and all this honey will be changed to gall. Matrimony is matrimony, and husbands are husbands, and wives will strive to have their own way—ay, and will fight to get it too. You will then find, Mrs. Lyndsay, that very little of the sugar of love, and all such romantic stuff, remains to sweeten your cup; and in the bitterness of your soul, you will think of me.”

“If this is true,” said Flora, “who would marry?”

“It is true in my case.”

“But fortunately there are exceptions to every rule.”

“Humph!—This is another compliment, Mrs. Lyndsay, at my expense.”

“Mrs. Ready, I do not wish to quarrel with you; but you seem determined to take all my words amiss.”

A long silence ensued,—Mrs. Ready smoothed down her ruffled plumes, and said, in a pitying, patronising tone, very common to her—

“You will be disgusted with Canada: we shall see you back in less than twelve months.”