Four years had passed away since Mark Sutherland and Rosalie had taken up their residence in the village of Shelton. In this space of time many changes had passed over the village community and the individuals that composed it. The Territory had been erected into a state—new towns were incorporated—new cities founded—old ones throve. Shelton itself had more than doubled in population and importance. Where there had been but three or four stores, there were now a dozen; where there had been but two churches, there were now five. A handsome courthouse stood on the site of the old log tenement, whence the law, if not justice, had once issued its decisions; an excellent market-place, well attended, added much to the comfort of the citizens; a lyceum—an incipient library and museum, perhaps—lent its attractions to the town; an elegant and capacious hotel replaced the rude, clap-boarded tavern of Colonel Garner. The country around the village had become thickly settled, and many, many improvements, which it were tedious to enumerate, had added to the importance of the place. Our friends, Mark and Rosalie, had grown up with the village. Their paper, “_The True Freeman_,” and their school, had both greatly prospered. But no one in the world, except Mark himself, knew how much of this prosperity was owing to the cheerful hope, the firm faith, the warm zeal, the untiring perseverance of Rosalie. And at times he wondered at the power of that pale, fragile creature—for she was still very delicate and frail. His professional business had increased very rapidly. He could not have specified any day, or any suit, from which his success had taken its impetus—all had been so gradual, so purely the result of application and perseverance, rather than of accident or fortune. He felt that here too there was an outward influence, an external power, to which he owed much, very much, of his persistent energy—a power living by his side, that continually threw itself with all its ardour and force into his purposes—into his soul—warming and strengthening him for effort, for endurance. His success was wonderful. He was already the most popular, the busiest, as he was also considered the most able lawyer in the West. Though but twenty-five years of age, he was no longer only by courtesy “Judge”—he was the presiding Judge of the court, by the appointment of the Executive. He had been elected to the State Senate; he had been named as a candidate for Governor. And he felt and knew that from the quiet, fair, and fragile being at his side, he drew continual strength, and light, and warmth; that, in addition to his own, he absorbed _her_ life—her life, that she gave freely to her love. Her form was frailer, her face wanner, but more beautiful, more impressive than ever—for her eyes were brilliant and eloquent with enthusiasm, and her lips, “touched with fire.”