husband, and, in his way, valued his wife as his best treasure.

But now he has shut the door behind him, and said, 'Well, Milly!'

'Well, dear!' was the corresponding greeting, made eloquent by a smile.

'So that young rascal won't go to sleep! Can't you give him to Nanny?'

'Why, Nanny has been busy ironing this evening; but I think I'll take him
to her now.' And Mrs. Barton glided towards the kitchen, while her
husband ran up-stairs to put on his maize-coloured dressing-gown, in
which costume he was quietly filling his long pipe when his wife returned
to the sitting-room. Maize is a colour that decidedly did _not_ suit his
complexion, and it is one that soon soils; why, then, did Mr. Barton
select it for domestic wear? Perhaps because he had a knack of hitting on
the wrong thing in garb as well as in grammar.

Mrs. Barton now lighted her candle, and seated herself before her heap of
stockings. She had something disagreeable to tell her husband, but she
would not enter on it at once. 'Have you had a nice evening, dear?'

'Yes, pretty well. Ely was there to dinner, but went away rather early.
Miss Arabella is setting her cap at him with a vengeance. But I don't
think he's much smitten. I've a notion Ely's engaged to some one at a
distance, and will astonish all the ladies who are languishing for him
here, by bringing home his bride one of these days. Ely's a sly dog;
he'll like that.'

'Did the Farquhars say anything about the singing last Sunday?'