Why should he fret? I was irritated at his not being overjoyed with all my husband had arranged for him. My eyes were closed against the beautiful simplicity and fidelity of his nature; but he saw no sympathy in my face that morning, though I told him he might do as he pleased about his young readers. I have always, however, been glad and thankful that when the moment of his departure came I fell upon his neck, weeping bitterly; and he called me his little Milly. Sir Oswald saw it, and as the carriage rolled away, he drew me to his heart.

"You have a right to be proud of your father, Mildred; he is a true man!"

God forgive me-I was punished for it afterwards-but when he was really gone, and my natural emotion subsided, his departure was a relief.

Beloved Mary! You see how I endeavour to keep my bond inviolate-to tell you the whole truth-even at the risk of losing your esteem. But, while you read, have mercy! You cannot understand the feeling that led to this, simply because you were born in the position you occupy; you have never known the terror of climbing with the perpetual terror of a fall; you have never known what it is to grow from one nature into another. My heroism seemed to begin and end with the one Idolatry-for him, sacrifice was triumph; and I almost think that the panting desire to become worthy of him, in every way, forced me into an abandonment of the affections that were the healthy growth of my former life.

And yet, when the day of our departure was determined on, I longed to see my father once more; I pictured him in his new estate, decked in the handsome dressing-gown I had given him, and seated like an old scholarly gentleman in the little parlour, with his two boys, well-ordered, well-clad youths, imbibing wisdom.

Sir Oswald, who read hearts as rapidly as men read books, suggested I should drive over, see him, and take him by surprise. I did so.

Can I ever forget that day, when, sitting in a hired carriage, I peeped over the well-remembered hedge, and saw the good and venerable man seated under my mulberry-tree, teaching a group of rustic boys-for the "two" had become many! He was dressed in the same old school garments-in nothing changed, dear old father! My spirit rose against him. I could not believe at the moment that the religious simplicity of his nature prompted him to labour thus, without fee or reward, for those rough boys-nor did I hear the mothers who blessed him for his teachings. I only felt that he was degrading ME-the wife of Sir Oswald Harvey-by such dress, such work, such companionship. I felt a passionate desire to reprove him, to teach him--who had so lovingly taught me what he ought to do, how he ought to maintain his dignity. I restrained my ire; but all the sweet feelings that drew me thither even the wish to kiss my grandmother's Bible, and once more lay my hands on her chair-shattered and crumbled before my pride.

With a palpitating heart, and a sense of having received an injury, I turned from my once cherished home without speaking to my father, and even congratulated myself on my forbearance!

IX.

WE went abroad; but the change did not produce on Sir Oswald the effect I had hoped for; though he met many early acquaintances. At first he seemed anxious to avoid receiving, or being received by, them; but my timidity abated, and I believe that in all things (as servants say) "I ave satisfaction." I was hardening my heart to expect no more.

If I could have seen him happy, I believed I should have been content; I think I should but the cloud was never removed from his brow. He was too wise, too good, too pure, to seek the excitements that men frequently imagine will dispel depression, but which in the end terminate in despair. The rattle of the dice had no attraction for him, and he never poured out the drop that caused the wine-cup to overflow. The glory of fine pictures, the still greater glory of fine scenery, did not give him new life. He would descant on them, and point out their beauties, and even seem to enjoy my admiration, in his cold, calm way, murmuring, "Poor Mildred, I am so glad to see you like it," placing his hand on my head as if he were caressing a child, not knowing that I was a deephearted, passion-full woman. In society he treated me as it became his wife to be treated; when we were alone, as a parent would treat a delicate girl. He had faith in my affection; but his mind having once taken hold of my talent for embroidery, and supposing I had no other, he filled my rooms with exquisite flowers, and presented me with one embroideryframe after another. I had been most grateful for the first of these presents, but I revolted against this needle-bondage, and affected to treat my old solace and companion with contempt, while I studied music and painting with avidity; but he would not suffer my pianoforte studies to continue. "Mildred,” he said, one morning, "I wish you to cultivate your voice, and I will appoint you a pianist to play your accompaniments but reserve your fingers for your embroidery! There is much wisdom in triumphing over one art, and that is quite your own. You will sing deliciously; but at your age you could not conquer the instrument even to accompany yourself. I assure you, to accompany well is a great gift, and my wife must do whatever she does perfectly."

Thus it was only by stealth that I ventured to put my fingers on the keys; I almost felt it to be a crime, because he disapproved of it.

An artist at Rome, whom Sir Oswald desired to employ, painted my portrait, and, by some fashionable alchemy, I was transformed into a beauty. The schoolmaster's daughter was talked of as the type of English loveliness! I was sufficient woman to feel how I was admired; but, oh! the anguish of seeing my husband's placid astonishment at that admiration! He might have been, perhaps, for a moment pleased at the

homage; for his faith in me expelled every taint of jealousy-if, indeed, it can exist where love has never been.

Sometimes I would catch his eyes fixed upon me with a critical, inquiring expression, blended with a certain look of wonder; and once he said, "Well; my little Mildred, it appears, bears out the reputation her husband gained during his residence abroad, as a man of taste. You are very much admired, little wife."

I panted to ask if this admiration gave him pleasure or pain; but I was afraid-always afraid. He did not know me. He appeared ever either in a dream, or just waking out of one: there was an absorbing memory, an everlasting presence, between us. I was more frank and at ease; but at times, my devotion, my idolatry, rendered me constrained and awkward when by his side. It robbed me of the "grace," the "expression,' the "esprit," which the world saw and acknowledged. Mistrustful of my power to please him, I was sure to say or do exactly what I desired to avoid. With him I was eager, or shy, or embarrassed. I caught the language rapidly; yet, whenever I spoke it before him, I saw his cheek flush with pain at my mistakes. Mine has often flushed, with a momentary triumph, when I have heard the question, "Who is she?" whispered in the French, Italian, or English tongue, and the reply, “Oh, don't you know? The new English beauty, Lady Harvey!" And then followed, "Who was she?" That last question turned me into marble; but it seemed, when he heard it, to irritate Sir Oswald almost to madness. If a lady made the inquiry, he withered her by a look; if a gentleman, he sought a quarrel, although his knowledge of the world pointed out that such a course would throw us much more open to observation.

Sir Oswald permitted me entire liberty; after he had guided me to the best pictures-forming my taste on the highest and purest modelshe would leave me in the society of some ladies who professed admiration and friendship for me, retiring into the libraries, or wandering-always alone when I was not his companion-among the glorious ruins of that wonderful city. Once or twice my friends rallied me on the homage I rendered my handsome, melancholy husband, and dared to suppose I would tell them some history of the cause of his abstraction. You can believe, Mary, that no one attempted this a second time. I have no words to express the bitterness of my contempt for any woman who gives voice to her husband's faults. It is her duty to woo him from them within the sacred sanctuary of home-to entreat, to reason with, to struggle against them heart and soul; but never to betray. Never-never put faith in woman who, having knelt at God's altar, would go free of her bond, or abate her duty to the head and heart of her existence. I tell you, Mary-Mary dearest, believe me-this new seeking of womanly independence among married women is an outrage against God and nature; it is one of the works of Antichrist; it is what no Christian woman can dare to countenance. She can never remove the seal from the bond. Let

her beware of signing it. If she find she cannot bend, let her not enter into the covenant; but having entered, no human law can unbind-no word of man unloose-what God has joined. Man was created to protect and cherish-woman loving to serve; there is no reasoning, no arguing, "If you cherish, I will serve." If the man forget his duty, let the woman be protected; but, under ALL CIRCUMSTANCES, keep the bond inviolate. The one poet, in a world of prose, has happily expressed the nature of this holy union

"As unto the bow the cord is,

So unto the man is woman.

Though she bends him, she obeys him;

Though she leads him, still she follows

Useless one without the other."

Marriage, in my eyes, is no more a civil contract than Baptism, or the most holy Sacrament of Our Lord: it is in every sense of the word SACRED, only to be dissolved by death-if by that!

But I have wandered from my story. The remembrance of those irritating women, and how they chattered about their husbands, ruffles my temper even now. Perhaps my little Mary will say "that is no difficult matter to do at any time!" Small-minded men or women are always stumbling-blocks in my way. I lack patience to my shame be it spokenwith those creatures, so insignificant that you almost wonder where "the Divinity dwells within them."

I was then at Rome, cultivating every little talent, every little art, by which I hoped in time to win his love. I used to repeat over and over after long days of disappointment, "It must come in time—it must come IN TIME!" And yet he was so kind, so gentle, so indulgent, so patient under the infliction of that terrible disappointment, which I saw was consuming his existence, that in the very furnace of my love I pitied, and sympathized with him. I had heard, that, where women had unloving husbands, the birth of children taught them to regard the mother with a tenderness so like love, as to deceive both, and that in the course of all wonder-working time it became love.

How devoutly I prayed for this God-gift from heaven; I asked for one child-only ONE! Surely that would give a fresh current to his thoughts. More than once, when our physician hinted that this was possible, I saw a light, a hope, in my husband's face that I had never seen before-but it was soon extinguished; hour after hour, day after day, week after week, month after month, he dragged heavily through life. In English society (which is more rife of scandal abroad even than at home), a report was circulated, and we both heard it at the same moment, that Miss Mansfeld, the lovely heiress of Mansfeld Grange, was about to be married-to the new Peer. My hand was on my husband's arm at the moment, and I felt him stagger as if shot. My presence of mind enabled me to direct our

and as

informant's attention to something at the other end of the room; Sir Oswald sank into a chair, I stood before him; and flushed and palpitating as I was, commenced talking rapidly to some new acquaintances, about the Corso, and a picture of the "Maid of Saragossa" (which our host had just purchased), and balls, and whatever came to my lips-it was like talking in a dream. He rallied bravely, and loitered with me round the room! When we drew near a door, I complained of heat and headache, and said I must go home; he turned down the staircase without speaking. When we got into the carriage, he pressed my hand.

"God bless you, Mildred; perhaps one day I may become worthy of you; you have more heroism in your nature than that Maid of Saragossa of whom you spoke! How you have endured! Every day you live elevates you in my esteem."

His "esteem!" Yet, it was a great tribute. I wept over it through the night, long after he slept. Esteem-but no love!

The English papers had some interest for him; but after that night he never dared to look at them-he would glance at them as they lay upon the table, anxiously, feverishly, but not touch them; at last I took them, looked them carefully over, and placed them before him. He understood this perfectly, and a "God bless you, Mildred!" was my reward. He knew, if her marriage had been there I would have removed the paper. After that incident he avoided the English, and would not enter into society, although he urged me to accept the invitations which covered our table; but this, of course, I would not do. "My husband," I said, was not well, and I could not leave him." This excited astonishment, remonstrance, and ridicule. My new friends tried in vain to change my resolution. While I watched the changes that passed over his face, I felt as if my heart must break. Though persecuted by restlessness and fever, he never complained; his hands had become perfectly transparent; and at times his eyes were so luminous, that it seemed as though flashes of electricity were passing from his brain; in a few moments those eyes would become heavy and lustreless, and his face haggard. Could it be, oh, life of my soul! that he was dying?-and yet his inner life-the Spirit-life that urges on this clogging clay to true nobility and generosity of actionstrengthened within him; he never wearied of doing good, not merely by gifts, but by thought; his agents were literally his almoners, and he so devised changes and improvements for the benefit of his dependants that I dwell upon them now with a pride and gratitude which I pray I may continue to feel hereafter. Every day, every hour, increased my anxiety. I felt that, if there were not some change, his life would pass away. Nothing interested or gave him pleasure. The entreaties he received from old friends, that he would throw his energies into public life, made him writhe as if in contempt of himself. "Read this, Mildred," he said; "read this letter from Lord L-; he thinks I am, what I was; he talks to this poor frame, hanging together by a miracle, as if it had the bone and