The woman was more lovely than the girl, was wiser, greater, perhaps better—alas! was she happier? She had been now nearly two years a wife, though but within the last twelve months acknowledged and installed as such in her husband’s house. It had been a dark mystery, her love, the child of sorrow and concealment, although she might thank her own true heart, guided by principle, and lighted by a higher star than any earthly passion, even the love of God, it had not been the source of shame. Artfully, yet enthusiastically, had that bold, brilliant, fascinating boy laid siege to her affections; and soon, by dint of kindred tastes, and feelings, and pursuits, he had succeeded in winning the whole perfect love of that pure, overflowing soul. She loved him with that fervor, that devotion, of which women alone are perhaps capable, and of women, only those who are gifted with that extreme sensibility, that exquisite organization, which, rendering them the most charming, the most fascinating, and the most susceptible of their sex, too often renders them the least happy. And he, too, loved her—as well, perhaps, as one of his character and temperament could love any thing, except himself; he loved her _passionately_; he admired her beauty, her grace, her delicacy, beyond measure. He understood and appreciated her exquisite taste, her brilliancy, her feminine and gentle genius. He was not happy when he was absent from her side; he could not endure the idea that she should love, or even smile upon another, he coveted the possession of a creature so beautiful, a soul so powerful, and at the same time so loving. Above all, he was proud to be loved by such a being. But beyond this he no more loved her, than the child loves its toy. He held her only in his selfishness of soul, even before his passion had “Spent as yet its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.” But he knew nothing, felt nothing, understood nothing of her higher, better self; he saw nothing of her inner light—guessed nothing of what a treasure he had won. He would have sacrificed nothing of his pleasures, nothing of his prejudices, nothing of his pride, had such a sacrifice been needed to make her the happiest of women. While she would have laid down her life for the mere delight of gaining him one moment’s joy—would have sacrificed all that she had, or hoped to have, save honor, faith and virtue. And to yield these he never asked her.