And there, at the upper end of the room, on a platform raised but one step above the floor, on a chair, at a table, sat the young schoolmistress—the wife of four years’ standing—scarcely turned twenty-one, and with the loveliest and most delicate face and form in the world, yet by the power of her soul’s strength and beauty keeping in willing subjection a miscellaneous crowd of girls, of all ages, sizes, and tempers. There she sat, with her sweet, fair face, and pale, golden, curly hair, and white muslin wrapper—looking the fairest girl among them all. When Mark entered, the quiet light of joy dawned in her eyes, and she arose and came softly down to meet him. There was a subdued gladness in the manner of both, as they clasped hands. “My dearest Rose, you are so much better than when I went away,” said Mark, looking fondly at her, as the bloom deepened on her cheeks. “I am better—I am _well_” replied Rosalie, smiling round upon her girls, several of whom left their seats, and came fluttering forward to welcome Mr. Sutherland with saucy pleasure. He had a merry jest or a loving word for each affectionate child, but soon sent them gaily back to their places, as the hour of dismissal had come. And Rosalie, accompanied by Mark, went back to her seat, and called the school to order, and gave out and led the evening hymn that closed their exercises. When the song was finished, and the girls all gone, Mark Sutherland turned to his young wife, and with a smile of joy drew her to his bosom. But in a moment a shade of anxiety clouded his face; and, still clasping her close to his bosom, he asked— “Rose, what makes your heart throb so violently?” Rosalie raised her eyes to his face, and he noticed that a sorrowful shade dimmed their lustre for an instant, but vanished before the smile with which she replied— “I am so glad to see you.” “But your heart knocks so forcibly?” “Come in the parlour, and let’s sit down there and talk—I have so many things to tell you, and to ask you about,” said Rosalie, evading his remarks; and gently withdrawing herself, she led the way into the parlour, and wheeled up an easy chair, and begged him to “sit down and make himself at home.” But, first, he made her recline upon the lounge and rest, while he drew the chair up and sat by her side. And there she lay, with her sweet, spiritual face, white as her drapery, except where all the colour had concentrated in a circumscribed fiery spot in either cheek. She was breathing short, yet smiling gaily at her own difficulty. He sat watching her, and trying to feel and to look happy, yet thinking that after all she was not so well as when he had left her—perceiving that he had mistaken fever heat for healthful bloom. He sat, trying to smile and talk cheerfully, yet with a dull, aching prophecy in his heart. It was in vain to stifle the rising anxiety. It found some vent in these words: “My love, you work too hard; that school is hurting your health?”