rich! Leave me, and tell the world that you would be foresworn if you kept faith with me, the thing

I am.

WIFE. And what are you that I should love you less than when I gave my hand, and with it all my heart?

Hus. Are you so blind as not to see? so dull as not to guess? My stately form is bowed with age-my youthful locks grown grey and scant— my spirit soured with the world's deceit.

WIFE. (interrupting him.) Hush, hush! you shall not say such false and wicked things against yourself. A traitor could not utter fouler

treason.

Hus. I speak no falsehoods, but plain truths. When I was rich, the world with flattering tongues proclaimed me handsome, young, and good: most wise-mo t virtuous: but now that I am poor, it publishes with trumpet tones, my age, my folly, and my vice.

WIFE. Poor! but yesterday I thought you rich.

Hus. (aside.) And so showed love! (Aloud.) But yesterday I thought myself the same, and yet the thought was but a liar even then to-day I know myself as what I am-a beggar, worse than beggar-debtor too.

Hus. Beggar, aye beggar! that is the word: that is the thing I am. Beggar! you caught at and repeated it; and so you did when I said, poor. Deny it not-I heard you do it. Beggar! It is a hateful word. You think so: ay, I knew you would. Go, go: proclaim me to the world the wretch I am, and that same smooth-faced, soft-tongued world will bid you hold yourself absolved from vows made in my prosperous days. I say.

Go, go,

WIFE. Now, shame upon you for the thought: no, not the thought-you could not think that I would go you only said it in a jesting mood. E'en to do that was treason against woman's truth and love.

Hus. I spoke not in a jesting mood: I am a ruined man, and therefore in the worldling's eyes all that is base and vile. Begone! none but a fool would share the fortunes of a man who has no fortune left.

WIFE. I will not go. Nay, thrust me from your door, and I return: spurn me, and still with loving eyes, and loving words, I crawl to where you sit pillow my aching brow upon your knee and die-blessings on you, the last words on my lip.

Hus. You know not what you say the tongue makes promises, the heart would not fulfil.

WIFE. It would; and you should know it

would.

Hus. I tell you I'm grown old.

WIFE. The greater need for one to wait and

tend on you.

Hus. I am grown poor.

WIFE. We will be rich in mutual love a treasure, like the widow's meal, that but increases from its use.

Hus. I am grown bitter-sour.

WIFE. The greater need of all love's sweetness to amend this mood.

Hus.

Falsehood and wrong have made me

rude and savage.

WIFE. The greater need of all love's gentleness to soften and subdue this rugged temper.

Hus. I have a false, a treacherous friend, and he has taught my heart to hate and to mistrust.

WIFE. You have a fond and faithful wife; love her the more-mistrust her not-she will deceive you, never.

Hus. I may not have a roof to shelter my poor head.

WIFE. Then we will make our home in some

fair wood, or flowery plain, and glancing at the starry sky above, bless the good hand that gives

us such a roof.

Hus. What if they kept me fettered, boundpent up within stone walls?

WIFE.

"Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;

The high and trusting heart can take
These for a hermitage."

Hus. Hermitage! Yes, hermits dwell alone. WIFE. Aye, but good spirits minister to all their wants such a fond and watchful spirit would I prove.

Hus. Would'st share a prison with me, wife? Want, scorn, and dark despair?

WIFE. All but despair. My love should win thee back to hope-my smiles breed smiles, till the heart's sunshine, like a summer day, made e'en dark things look bright. Have I not shared your joys, and shall I not share all your sorrows too, and by the sharing, lighten them? Go where you will, I claim my station by your side, whether you frown or smile on me.

Hus. Frown on thee? No: thou noble and high-minded woman! Gentle and sweet as summer's breath, yet firm as ocean's rock, thy steadfast and abiding faith wins me once more to trust

and love my kind

But think ere you decide.

Your friends can give you pomp and luxurythe comforts and the elegancies of high life: I can but offer penury and gloom.

WIFE. But penury and gloom? Can you not offer me the same true, trusting heart I gave to you?

Hus. I have not that to give it is and has been yours, save for my brief mistrust but now, since first I called you mine.

WIFE. Then what can I need more? Have I not all in thee, and am I not thy wife, that sweetest, dearest, holiest name in all the realm of speech?

Hus. Yes, wife-sweet wife-mine own sweet wife. There is no word more sweet, more holy, or more dear. In thy true love I have a treasure that the worldling knows not of a treasure whose rich worth he doth not understand, and cannot take away. I doubt no more: thy fond, frank smile convicts me of my sin, and makes me penitent yet happy too. And yet, sweet wife, say once again that, having me, you can support the loss of all beside, keeping the bride's warm love unchilled, undimmed. Thy tones are to my ears like heavenly tones when thou sayest this.