ceased wife dwelt on with realistic details, his regret at her loss, as evinced by the way he "took on," and the prospective chances for again "settling." I perceived that Catherine's mind was hungering for the raw materials of romance in which our household is singularly deficient. The Curate's intentions had evidently been a theme of some private speculation on her part, but here again, I was obliged to be a dampener of her hopes, for it is evident to all but the most determined optimist that the Curate has no intentions.
St. Valentine's day brought Catherine a post-card, highly glazed, and colored, representing a jovial, not to say sporty gentleman, dancing a jig with one extended arm inviting all beholders to join in his hilarity. It afforded her no small gratification, and brought home to me the unwelcome realization that my sober (and expensive) Christmas present had been wide of the mark. This sanguine reminder of St. Valentine's mission was installed in a prominent position on the kitchen-shelf where Catherine's arrested girlhood takes many a sly, and I doubt not, sustaining glance in its direction, glances which seem to say that under the middle-aged and unromantic exterior there
