a good husband always shares his letters with his wife.

"His wife! Alfred!" and she coloured all over. "Don't call me _names,_"
said she, turning it off after her fashion. "I can't bear it: it makes me
tremble. With fury."

"This will never do, sweet one," said Alfred gravely. "You and I are to
have no separate existence now; you are to be I, and I am to be you.
Come!"

"No; you read me so much of it as is proper for me to hear. I shall not
like it so well from your lips: but never mind."

When he came to read it, he appreciated the delicacy that had tempered
her curiosity. He did not read it all to her, but nearly.

"It is a beautiful letter," said she; "a little pomposer than mamma and I
write. 'The paternal roof!' But all that becomes you; you are a scholar:
and, dear Alfred, if I should separate you from your papa, I will never
estrange you from him; oh, never, never. May I go for my work? For
methinks, O most erudite, the 'maternal dame,' on domestic cares intent,
hath confided to her offspring the recreation of your highness." The gay
creature dropt him a curtsey, and fled to tell Mrs. Dodd the substance of
"the sweet letter the dear high-flown Thing had written."

By then he had folded and addressed it, she returned and brought her
work: charity children's great cloaks: her mother had cut them, and in
the height of the fashion, to Jane Hardie's dismay; and Julia was
binding, hooding, etcetering them.