"I cannot," he answered, smiling. "I never loved you in the old days as I do now. I would not change my wife, in spite of all the trouble she gives me, for any other woman upon earth. You believe this, love, do you not?" looking at her beautiful face anxiously, for it had clouded a little at his last words. "Yes, but I do not like to trouble you: it is that that frets me. I wanted to be a comfort to you, and never to give you a moment's uneasiness; but I cannot help myself, somehow. I love you, I don't believe you know yet how I love you, Herbert; but it seems as if I must grieve you sometimes." "Never mind; I will hear your trouble and my own too," he answered, cheerily; and in this way he always comforted her. But to Magdalene her own self ever remained a mystery; the forces of her own nature were too strong for her, and yet she was not a weak woman. She had expected that in her case love and happiness would have worked a miracle, as though miracles were ever effected by mere human agencies,--that she would rise like a Phoenix from the ashes of her past, reborn, rejuvenated, with an inexhaustible fund of moral strength. Now she had Herbert, all would go smoothly; she would no longer mourn for her little ones. Since her husband was there to comfort her, with his constant presence to sustain her, all must be well; never again would she be nervous, irritable, or sarcastic. Poor Magdalene! she was creating heaven for herself upon earth; she was borrowing angels' plumes before the time; she had forgotten the conditions of humanity, "the body of the flesh," which weighed down greater souls than hers. There are Gethsemanes of the spirit to the weary ones of earth, hours of conflict that must be lived through and endured. Nature that groaneth and travaileth cannot find its abiding place of rest here. To the end of time it seems to be written in enduring characters that no human lot shall be free from suffering: sooner or later, more or less,--that is all! Magdalene had still to learn this lesson painfully: that she was slow in learning it, proved the strength and obduracy of her will. True, she was rarely sarcastic,--never in her husband's presence, for a word or a look from him checked her, and she grew humble and meek at once. It was her unruly nerves that baffled her; she was shocked to find that irritable words still rose to her lips; that the spirit of restlessness was not quelled forever; that thunder still affrighted her; and that now and then her mind seemed clouded with fancied gloom. She once spoke of this to Miss Middleton, with tears in her eyes. "It is so strange," she said. "Herbert is different, but I am still so unchanged."