The first misfortune of my married life, came in the person of Margaret Melville.

She burst into the boudoir one morning like a young tornado, seizing me in her strong arms, and giving me a shower of kisses, before I had time to recover from my astonishment.
Ernest and myself were seated side by side by the escritoire.

He was reading,--I was writing to Edith, little dreaming of the interruption at hand.
"My dear creature," she exclaimed, with one of her inimitable ringing laughs, "how _do_ you _do_?
You didn't think of seeing me, I know you didn't.

Where did I come from?
I dropped down from the upper regions,--you do not believe that.

Well, I came with a party of friends, who wanted me to keep them alive.