"What have they been doing to you, my darling?" he asked. "Those little
demons of ponies running away again?"

"No," she answered, scarce audibly.

"Something has gone wrong with you," he persisted. "Have you caught
cold? None of the old symptoms, I hope?"

"None, Paul. There is nothing the matter," she answered, laying her head
lightly, as if afraid of the liberty she took, upon his shoulder. His
arm went round her waist.

"What is it, then, my wife?" he said tenderly.

"Which would you rather have, Paul--have me die, or do something
wicked?"

"Juliet, this will never do!" he returned quietly but almost severely.
"You have been again giving the reins to a morbid imagination. Weakness
and folly only can come of that. It is nothing better than hysteria."

"No, but tell me, dear Paul," she persisted pleadingly. "Answer my
question. Do, please."

"There is no such question to be answered," he returned. "You are not
going to die, and I am yet more certain you are not going to do any
thing wicked. Are you now?"

"No, Paul. Indeed I am not. But----"