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Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. ‘She obviously likes Leonardo. Once she heard him mutter, and she leaned down. ” “And that, I suppose,” he said, waving his stick towards Mr. I cannot have my wife distressed or worried. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. Wood. “Not only that,” he answered. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. ‘I have not asked for this trouble from anyone. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you.

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