A wonderful amount of knowledge may be accumulated, by devoting two morning hours out of the twenty-four to study, and, perhaps, the pleasantest acquirements we possess are those gathered up of our own free will, unaided and, as it were, in secret. Thus it was with Catharine. With a tolerable rudimental education she found no difficulty in a want of masters, and every day saw her naturally fine mind expand itself with freshly gathered ideas, that gradually consolidated and took the form of knowledge. Among other things she found a portfolio of drawings, rough studies, and bold, spirited sketches, such as genius throws off as it searches for perfect development, with implements and materials of art, which had long slumbered in disuse. The sight of these things awoke a new desire and a new talent in her. She would learn to paint. She would study hard, and so perfect herself, that some day his portrait should be hers. She would work incessantly till her art should achieve a copy of that. This was all the result she thought of—his picture—nothing more. Here was an object for exertion. So she went to work, heart and soul, to obtain this shadow of a lost happiness; looking dreamily toward the future when he might learn how faithfully she had worked and thought for him. It may injure Catharine, a deserted wife and childless mother, so young and so wronged, when I say that her life on the Island was one of tolerable happiness; but she was not an angel of suffering, only an earnest, hopeful, young creature, resolved to perform her duties honestly as they arose. Spite of everything, she was looking forward to the possibility of meeting her husband in the future, to rejoice over him if he was blameless, and to forgive him under any circumstances. Here again some of her own sex may condemn her for want of pride, and exclaim of what female dignity demands from the sex. But as I have said, Catharine was no heroine, only a beautiful, high-minded and gentle-hearted woman full of feminine compassion, not only for the miseries, but for the weaknesses of mankind. She never thought of her husband so much as having sinned against herself, individually, as of the wrong done to his own manliness. People who have never loved can talk of that implacable dignity so regal in the proud woman; but those who love know well that affection is stronger than pride, nay, stronger than death itself. The woman who boasts that she would be unforgiving to the man she loves, has very little of tenderness in her nature, or real dignity either. Never does the true Christian, or the true woman, which is much the same thing, appear more beautiful than with a feeling of charity warm at heart. The highest and purest charity is that which refuses to look with implacability on the wrongs from which we have suffered.