She was still a girl, this pretty wife of Harry Muir--a girl belonging to that very large class, who never discover that they have hearts at all, until they have sent them forth on some great venture, perilling all peace for ever. Agnes had been a very gay, perhaps a rather foolish girl--liking very greatly the small vanities which she could reach, and managing to keep out of sight the graver matters of life. She knew what it was to be poor--but then she had known that all her life, and the difficulties fell upon elder people, not on herself, and Agnes sailed over them with innocent heedlessness. The heart slumbered quietly in her bosom--she scarcely knew it was there, except when it beat high sometimes for some small merry-making; scarcely even when she married Harry Muir were those gay placid waters stirred. She liked him very much--she admired him exceedingly--she was very proud of him--yet still she had not found out her heart. But when the cloud began to steal over the gay horizon of her life--when she had to watch for his coming, and tremble for his weakness, and weep over his faults those sad apologetic tears, and say, poor Harry! then this unknown existence began to make itself felt within the sobbing breast of the little, pretty, girlish wife. The sad and fatal weakness, which made him in a certain degree dependant upon them--which aroused the feelings of anxious care, the eager expedients to protect him from himself, gave a new character to Agnes. In sad peril now was the happiness of this young, tender, sensitive heart; but the danger that threatened it had quickened it into conscious life. He went away with smiles, and hopeful freshness to his daily labour. He came home, honestly wearied, at an earlier hour than usual, having his conscience free of offence that day. So happily they all gathered about the little tea-table; so gaily Agnes presided at its tea-making, and Martha placed on the table the little crystal vessel full of honey--odorous honey, breathing out stories of all the home flowers of Ayr--so much the travellers had still to tell, and the dwellers at home to hear. “And now, Martha,” said Harry, “put on your bonnet, and come out. I believe she has never been out, Agnes, all the time we have been away.” “Yes, indeed, Harry--Martha was always at the Kirk,” said the literal Violet. “But we are not going to the Kirk to-night--come Martha, and taste this April air.” Martha looked at her work. “It is a temptation, Harry; but I think you had better take Rose--see, Rose looks white with working so long, and I have to go to the warehouse to-morrow.” “To the Candleriggs!” said Harry, laughing. “Where you scarcely can tell when it is June and when December; and if Rose is white, you are absolutely green with sitting shut up here so long--come, Martha.”