thought it positively unkind of David to take her little story in such stiff fashion
"It's very strange," said David.
"It's very silly," said Emma. "I'm sorry I told you, David."
"I'm very glad. It's extremely curious. Listen, and you'll see—I, too, have a secret, Emma."
"Nay, I don't want to hear it," said Emma.
"You shall hear it," said the young man. "I never mentioned it before, simply because I had forgotten it—utterly forgotten it. But your story calls it back to my memory. I, too, once had my fortune told. It was neither a squaw nor a gypsy. It was a young lady, in company. I forget her name. I was less than twenty. It was at a party, and she was telling people's fortunes. She had cards; she pretended to have a gift. I don't know what I had been saying. I suppose that, as boys of that age are fond of doing, I had been showing off my wit at the expense of married life. I remember a young lady introducing me to this person, and saying that here was a young man who declared he never would marry. Was it true? She looked at her cards, and said that it was completely false, and that I should marry twice. The company began to laugh. I was mortified. 'Why don't you say three times?' I said. 'Because,' answered the young lady, 'my cards say only twice.'" David had got up from the sofa, and stood before his wife. "Don't you think it's curious?" he said.
"Curious enough. One would say you thought it something more."
"You know, continued David, "we can't both marry twice."
"'You know,'" cried Emma, "Bravo, my dear. 'You know' is delightful. Perhaps you would like me to withdraw and give you a chance."
David looked at his wife, half surprised at the bitterness of her words. He was apparently on the point of making some conciliatory speech; but he seemed forcibly struck, afresh, with the singular agreement of the two predictions. "Upon my soul!" he said, "it's preternaturally odd!" He burst into a fit of laughter.
Emma put her hands to her face and sat silent. Then, after a few moments: "For my part," she said, "I think it's extremely disagreeable!" Overcome by the effort to speak, she burst into tears.
Her husband again placed himself at her side. He still took the humorous view of the case—on the whole, perhaps, indiscreetly. "Come, Emma," he said, "dry your tears, and consult your memory. Are you sure you've never been married before?"
Emma shook off his caresses and got up. Then, suddenly turning around, she said, with vehemence, "And you, sir?"
For an answer David laughed afresh; and then, looking at his wife a moment, he rose and followed her. "Où diable la jalousie va-t-elle se nicher!" he cried. He put his arm about her, she yielded, and he kissed her. At this moment a little wail went up from the baby in the neighboring room. Emma hastened away.
Where, indeed, as David had asked, will jealousy stow herself away? In what odd, unlikely comers will she turn up? She made herself a nest in poor Emma's innocent heart, and, at her leisure, she lined and feathered it. The little scene I have just described left neither party, indeed, as it found them. David had kissed his wife and shown the folly of her tears, but he had not taken back his story. For ten years he hadn't thought of it; but, now that he had been reminded of it, he was quite unable to dismiss it from his thoughts. It
