It was twenty-five minutes past seven. The buggy was at the door to take him to the train. His hand was on the knob. "Good-bye," he called out. There came from somewhere upstairs, through the half-open door, a feminine voice, "Good-bye;" then he had gone out into the glad spring air, odorous with the foretokens of coming life, and musical with the songs of the nest-builders. But there was no song in his heart, no spring of hope and light in his life, as he took the reins out of his groom's hand and spoke to his impatient horse a sharp "Get on!" And as he rode through the royal avenue that led up to his house, this is what he thought:— If I had been a guest, Martha would have been up and dressed. She would have had a spray of fresh flowers at my plate. She would have sat at the table and seen that my coffee was good, and my eggs hot, and my toast browned. And I should have at least a parting shake of the hand, and a hope expressed that I would come again, and perhaps a wave of the handkerchief from the balcony. And I should have carried away with me that smile that is brighter than the sunshine, as the last gift of her gracious hospitality. It is a chance if she would not even have proposed to ride to the station with me, to see me off. For she knows, if ever woman did, how to welcome the coming and speed the parting guest. But I am only her husband; and I can eat my breakfast alone, as if I were a bachelor; and get my coffee muddy or clear, hot or cold, as Bridget happens to make it; and take eggs hard or soft, and toast burnt or soggy, as it chances to come from a careless cook. And nobody cares. And when I go, "Good-bye" is flung after me like a dry bone after an ill-cared-for cur. Heigho! What's the use of being married, anyway? And this is what she thought as she put the last touches to her hair before her glass, and tried hard to keep the tears back from her eyes before she went down to see that the family breakfast was ready:— I wonder if Hugh really cares anything for me any more. When we were first married he never would have gone off in this way, with a careless "Good-bye" tossed upstairs as he might toss a well-cleaned bone to a hungry dog. He would have found time to run up and kiss me good-bye, and tell me that he missed me at his breakfast, and ask was I sick. He is gracious to his friends; a perfect gentleman to every one but his wife. I believe he is tired of me. I wish I could let him go. It would be hard for me; but if it would be better for him!—Well! well! I mustn't think such things as these. Perhaps he does love me after all. But—but—it is coming to be hard to believe it. And so with a heavy heart she went to her work. And the April sun laughed in at the open windows, and the birds chirped cheer to her all day, and the flowers waved their most graceful beckonings to her in vain; all for want of that one farewell kiss. Oh! husbands and wives, will you never learn that love often dies of slightest wounds; that the husband owes no such thoughtful courtesy to any other person as he owes his wife; that the wife owes no such attentive consideration to any guest as she owes to her husband; that life is made up of little things, and that ofttimes a little neglect is harder burden for love to bear than an open and flagrant wrong.—Christian Union.