Trevelyan knew all this himself,--had said so to himself a score of times, though not probably in spoken words or formed sentences.

But, that all was equal between himself and the wife of his bosom, had been a thing ascertained by him as a certainty.

There was no debt of gratitude from her to him which he did not acknowledge to exist also as from him to her.

But yet, in his anger, he could not keep himself from thinking of the gifts he had showered upon her.

And he had been, was, would ever be, if she would only allow it, so true to her! He had selected no other friend to take her place in his councils! There was no "dear Mary," or "dear Augusta," with whom he had secrets to be kept from his wife.