"No, I thank you," replied Irene, curtly. "I don't incline to the laughing mood, just now." "Laughing is contagious," suggested Hartley. "I shall not take the infection to-night." And she balanced her little head with the perpendicularity of a plumb-line. "Can't I persuade you?" He was in a real good-humor, and smiled as he said this. "No, sir. You may waive both argument and persuasion. I am in earnest." "And when a woman is in earnest you might as well essay to move the Pillars of Hercules." "You might as well in my case," answered Irene, without any softening of tone or features. "Then I shall not attempt, after a hard day's work, a task so difficult. I am in a mood for rest and quiet," said the young husband. "Perhaps," he resumed, after a little pause, "you may feel somewhat musical. There is to be a vocal and instrumental concert to-night. What say you to going there? I think I could enjoy some good singing, mightily." Irene closed her lips firmly, and shook her head. "Not musically inclined this evening?" "No," she replied. "Got a regular stay-at-home feeling?" "Yes." "Enough," said Hartley, with unshadowed good-humor, "we will stay at home." And he sung a snatch of the familiar song--"There's no place like home," rising, as he did so, from the table, and offering Irene his arm. She could do no less than accept the courtesy, and so they went up to their cozy sitting-room arm-in-arm--he chatty, and she almost silent. "What's the matter, petty?" he asked, in a fond way, after trying for some time, but in vain, to draw her out into pleasant