“She’s right, my dear,” said Mr. Martin, to his wife; “but we must not let them go—we must make them as comfortable as we can with us. Thank Providence, I have enough for us all.” But Ralph Murray steadily refused all offers of assistance from Mr. Martin. He knew it would be better for them, for a little while at least, to be away from all Edda’s old connections. Several years they spent “out west,” and not until they had nearly reached mid-life, did they return to their old home in ——; then, at the urgent request of Mr. and Mrs. Martin, who had grown old, infirm, and tired of society, and really needed Edda, they moved back. Edda was a lovely looking matron at the time of her return—she seemed so happy and contented. I well remember the pleasant effect it produced upon me when I saw her surrounded by her troop of noble boys, and leaning on her husband, who still retained his dignity, but blent with it was an air of loving softness that he had gained by intercourse with his gentle, “darling little wife.” Her married life, even after their reconciliation, however, was not exempt from trials. There were times when her husband’s old moods of exaction and impatience would come over him, and her own willful, rebellious spirit would stand in the way, and torment her with demands, such as “what right has he more than I?” and the like—as if the gratification of rights, merely for justice sake, made up the happiness of home life, a happiness that is only gained, only insured, by love’s sweet yieldings. They both tried to struggle against these dark influences; but at such times life would be very dreary to her, and it needed all the strict discipline of her faith—all her hope and trust in Heaven, to make her victorious over self. Their children, however, proved angel-blessings to them. They softened and humanized Ralph, and soothed and occupied Edda. Dear Edda! her spring season had been a wild, frolicksome one, bringing a stormy, cloudy summer; but her autumn yielded a rich harvest of happiness, and her little, throbbing heart thanked God hourly for his kindness and love to her in sustaining her through all her dark hours. “Seven great boys, and not one daughter!” exclaimed our old friend, Mrs. Howard, to Edda, after her return to her old home—“what a pity!” “Oh, no,” replied Edda, quickly; “I am always so thankful my children are all boys. I would not have the charge of a daughter’s happiness on me for a world.” “Why!” asked Mrs. Howard with surprise. “Because,” replied Edda, in a low tone, looking significantly at the good old lady, “a woman’s character seldom develops in prosperity—it requires, like precious metals, the fiery furnace of affliction—the crucible of sorrow.”