But at the close of one year mark the result—one year of patient trial to our young wife! Many vexations, both real and imaginary, had been hers, yet she loved her husband, and resolved to overcome all the errors of her education, that she might be to him the helpmate—the friend—the beloved companion she felt he deserved. Where there is a will, it is said, there is always a way, and Anna bravely conquered the difficulties which at first presented themselves. Even those who most criticised her first attempts at housekeeping might now have taken lessons themselves from the neatness and order which reigned throughout her establishment. The rebellious Kitty yielded gradually to the gentle dominion of her charming mistress. Miss Krout sweetened her vinegar visage, and even presented Anna with a jar of pickles of her own preparation, while Mrs. Peerabout acknowledged that the “Doctor’s city wife was wonderful—_considerin’_!” May my simple story encourage the young wife to meet those trials in her domestic path, from which none are wholly exempt, with patience and meekness—let her remember that “_Love considereth not itself_,” and “That if ye will be happy in marriage, _Confide, love, and be patient: be faithful, firm, and holy_.” * * * * * THOU ART COLD. Anna! methought thou wert a raptured saint, Like those who loved and worshiped here of old, In whom the fire of heaven and earth were blent: But—thou art cold! I dreamed thou wert an angel sent to me, With radiant countenance, and wings of gold All glowing with the tints of yon warm sky: But—thou art cold! An angel sent to breathe upon this heart, Crushed and still quivering with pangs untold. To soothe its anguish with some heavenly art; But—thou art cold! No pain responsive moves thy snowy breast— No blushes dye thy cheek of Phidian mould— No thoughts of love disturb thy dreamless rest; Alas! thou’rt cold! The flashes of thy deep and changeful eye, The music from thy lips that trembling rolled, The burning thoughts that rapt my soul on high; These seemed not cold. But rubies with a crimson lustre gleam; Diamonds within them seem a fire to hold; And the dank forest breathes its wand’ring flame:— Like them thou’rt cold. Oh fate! that one so beautiful and bright, So fit t’inspire the meek, to daunt the bold. To nerve ambition to its loftiest flight, Should still be cold! And yet, I love thee, Anna; in my heart, As in a shrine, thine image I’ll enfold; I’ll love thee, marble goddess as thou art, Divine, though cold.