"DEAR Mary," said Harry —— to his little wife, "I have a favor to ask of you. You have a friend whom I dislike very much, and who I am quite sure will make trouble between us. Will you give up Mrs. May for my sake, Mary?"

  A slight shade of vexation crossed Mary's pretty face, as she said, "You are unreasonable, Harry. She is lady-like, refined, intellectual, and fascinating, is she not?"

  "Yes, all of that; and, for that very reason, her influence over one so yielding and impulsive as yourself is more to be dreaded, if unfavorable. I 'm quite in earnest, Mary. I could wish never to see you together again."

  "Pshaw! dear Harry, that 's going too far. Don't be disagreeable; let us talk of something else. As old Uncle Jeff says, 'How's trade?'" and she looked archly in his face.

  Harry did n't smile.

  "Well," said the little wife, turning away, and patting her foot nervously, "I don't see how I can break with her, Harry, for a whim of yours; besides, I 've promised to go there this very evening."

  Harry made no reply, and in a few moments was on his way to his office.

  Mary stood behind the curtain, and looked after him as he went down the street. There was an uncomfortable, stifling sensation in her throat, and something very like a tear glittering in her eye. Harry was vexed,—she was sure of that; he had gone off, for the first time since their marriage, without the affectionate good-by that was usual with him, even when they parted but for an hour or two. And so she wandered, restless and unhappy, into her little sleeping-room.

  It was quite a little gem. There were statuettes, and pictures, and vases, all gifts from him either before or since their marriage; each one had a history of its own,—some tender association connected with Harry. There was a bouquet, still fresh and fragrant, that he had purchased on his way home, the day before, to gratify her passion for flowers. There was a choice edition of Poems they were reading together the night before, with Mary's name written on the leaf, in Harry's bold, handsome hand. Turn where she would, some proof of his devotion met her eye. But Mrs. May! She was so smart and satirical! She would make so much sport of her, for being "ruled" so by Harry! Had n't she told him "all the men were tyrants," and this was Harry's first attempt to govern her. No, no, it would n't do for her to yield.

  So the pretty evening dress was taken out; the trimmings re-adjusted, and re-modelled, and all the little et ceteras of her toilette decided. Yes, she would go; she had quite made up her mind to that. Then she opened her jewel-case; a little note fell at her feet. She knew the contents very well. It was from Harry,—slipped slyly into her hand on her birth-day, with that pretty bracelet. It could n't do any harm to read it again. It was very lover-like for a year old husband; but she liked it! Dear Harry! and she folded it back, and sat down, more unhappy than ever, with her hands crossed in her lap, and her mind in a most pitiable state of irresolution.

  Perhaps, after all, Harry was right about Mrs. May; and if he was n't, one hair of his head was worth more to her than all the women in the world. He never said one unkind word to her,—never! He had anticipated every wish. He had been so attentive and solicitous when she was ill. How could she grieve him?

  Love conquered! The pretty robe was folded away, the jewels returned to their case, and, with a light heart, Mary sat down to await her husband's return.

  The lamps were not lit in the drawing-room, when Harry came up the street. She had gone, then!—after all he had said! He passed slowly through the hall, entered the dark and deserted room, and threw himself on the sofa with a heavy sigh. He was not angry, but he was grieved and disappointed. The first doubt that

  "Dear Harry!" said a welcome voice at his side.

  "God bless you, Mary!" said the happy husband; "you 've saved me from a keen sorrow!"

  Dear reader,—won't you tell?—there are some husbands worth all the sacrifices a loving heart can make!