Yes, Andrew Gordon was a rich man; but was he satisfied? Was that craving thirst for the “gold that perisheth” quenched at last? Ah! no; it raged more fiercely than ever. Amy—his pure and gentle Amy, slept in the little church-yard, where the white tombstones contrasted so beautifully with the deep-green turf, and where the willow-trees made a cool, refreshing shade even at noon-day. She had pleaded and reasoned with him in vain. Day by day he became more and more deeply engrossed in the pursuit of wealth. With a mind capable of the highest things—with an intellect that might have soared above the stars—with eloquence at his command, by which he might have swayed the hearts of men, and led them captive at his will, he yet preferred to hover near the earth, and offer up genius, talent, even love itself, upon the altar of mammon. Had any one told him that he had almost ceased to love his wife, he would have spurned the idea, and have laid the “flattering unction to his soul,” that he was indeed a pattern husband. Were not all his wife’s wants most liberally supplied? Was not money ever at her command? In short, did he ever deny her any thing? Yes, Andrew Gordon! You denied her what was of more worth to her than the gold and silver of Peru. You denied her a little of your precious time. So absorbed were you in your own pursuits, so fearful were you that every hour would not add something to your store, that you had no time to devote to her whose happiness was in your hands. You had no time for that sweet interchange of thought and feeling that she so valued; you had no time for those little attentions that woman so dearly prizes; you had no time for an occasional caress or word of endearment that would have cheered her in many a long, lonely hour, and the mere memory of which would have sustained her through suffering and through weariness. No, you had no time for trifles like these; and you could not remember—proud man that you were—that her nature was not like your nature, and that those things were as necessary to her existence as dew is to the drooping flower—as the warm sunlight to the ripening grain—as the draught of cool water to the pilgrim, fainting in the wilderness. You could not remember all this, and Amy pined day by day: her cheek grew pale and her step more languid. Do you say she should have had more strength of mind than to have been affected by such slight causes? I tell you she could not help it. Talk of strength of mind to a neglected wife! Woman’s true strength lies in her affections; and if wounded there she will droop and wither, just as surely as does the vine, when rudely torn from the tree to which it clung. She may struggle against it long and, for a while, successfully; the eye of man may mark no change upon lip or brow; but—_it will come at last!_