There is no state of mind so calm as that of hopelessness. And, therefore, there is none so often mistaken for resignation. Zuleime’s cheeks were pale and hollow, her eyes heavy and sunken, and surrounded by a dark, livid circle—and she had contracted an unconscious habit of pressing her hand tightly over her heart, while a look of pain corrugated her brow. Yet, withal, she moved through the house very quietly—without a sigh or a tear—yea, even with a _smile_ for whom she chanced to meet—a wan smile of tenderness, fellow-feeling. For the grief that had come to her own young heart, had revealed to her the secret of a general sorrow, and awakened a deep human sympathy. Yet perhaps it was a morbid excess of this feeling that made her see, in every one she met, a fellow-sufferer. Her father misunderstood her serenity and her sweet smile. And his wife led him into that misunderstanding. “It is a merciful provision of Heaven, that young people of her tender age, can feel no lasting grief. At first, over any misfortune they lament excessively. But it is very soon forgotten,” said Georgia. “Ah, yes! Charley Cabell said something like the same thing, and, indeed, it seems to be true,” replied Mr. Clifton. We are easily persuaded to believe that which we wish to credit. And so the old gentleman believed in the correctness of his wife’s judgment, and in the reality of his daughter’s peace. Major Cabell was baffled and perplexed. “Jealousy is as cruel as the grave,” and so, also, is that base passion which often goes by the holy name of Love. It had been under the influence of both of these that Charles Cabell had sworn to punish Zuleime severely for what he called her faithlessness. But for the present, at least, he was completely frustrated. There was nothing to complain of in her conduct to him. She was very kind and gentle—not with the gentleness of meekness and humility, but with that of a compassionate toleration—such as an angel might feel in looking down upon a determined sinner—seeing his moral insanity, and foreseeing his consequent wretchedness. Major Cabell had frequently heard of mourners who could not bear to hear the names of their beloved, lamented dead, spoken before them. And he thought to torture her bosom by frequently reverting to “that horrible massacre,” and “poor Frank.” But he could not add one pang to those she had already endured. Her sorrow was too deep to be probed—to be _touched_ by a superficial hand like his. She could bear to listen and reply when he talked of her massacred love. For like a stationary panorama of the past and the present, his life and death were ever before her mind. She could converse, without new emotion, of him over whose fate, in its deepest, darkest horrors, she was ever brooding. If any mourners cannot brook to hear the name of the lost mentioned in their presence, it is because they are already blessed with long seasons of forgetfulness, and shrink from the pain of remembrance.