Yet it must not be supposed that Gloria was a real angel, or that her coming brought perfect peace to the household. Far from this. Gloria had a fiery little spirit of her own that sometimes flamed out at very inconvenient times and seasons, and the most she did towards restoring harmony was to restrain by her bright presence the expression of harsh feelings, and to prevent the estrangement breaking out into open warfare. While they would be sitting silent and sullen, at the same fireside, in the long back parlor that looked out upon the leaden sky and sea of these dull December days, he would be apparently absorbed in the perusal of some favorite old classic author, she would be engaged in knitting, the glittering, fine, long needles glancing in and out between her delicate white fingers, in round after round of stitches—for she was a great knitter of lamb’s-wool hose—the child would be sitting on the carpet somewhere near, earnestly employed in dressing her doll, drawing on her slate, or cutting figures out of paper—but always singing some little song to herself, filling the room with harmony. How could the sullen couple break into open warfare in her presence? Yet sometimes they did so. A dispute would arise out of that dull silence, as a breeze would spring over the gray sea, and blow into storm in one case as in the other. The gust always arose from Eusebie’s quarter. And Marcel always got the worst of it. Often little Gloria would see him grieved, humiliated, yet silent and patient, under his wife’s false accusations and bitter reproaches. Then her soul would be filled with sympathy, her song would cease, her playthings drop, and she would get up and take her little stool and go and sit down by his side and slip her small hand into his and lay her bright head on his knee. This always quelled the rising storm. It prevented Marcel from retorting, however much exasperated he might be, and it eventually silenced Eusebie, for no one can keep up a quarrel alone. Gloria’s interference did not always stop at sympathy for Marcel. It sometimes, indeed, broke out into righteous indignation against Eusebie. On one occasion, she had heard her unhappy aunt taunt him with his want of fortune and charge him with mercenary motives in marrying her. She had seen her uncle’s dark cheek flame, and had noticed how hard it was for him to keep his temper; and she had left her play and gone and sat down by his side, and put her little arms around his knee and laid her shining head upon it. That had soothed and silenced him. He could not give way to his evil spirit in the presence of the child. But, mind, when at length he arose and left the parlor, and Gloria found herself alone with her aunt, she rebuked that passionate woman fearlessly. “You treat my uncle worse than you would dare to treat any negro slave on the promontory,” she exclaimed, in angry tears. “He is not your uncle,” was all the lady said in reply.