These gentle and forgiving feelings grew strong within the heart of the young woman, as she studied in that solitary room, solitary save for the pictured presence of her husband. Her character became fixed and noble, with the gradual expansion of a fine intellect, and it was not long before the frail, fair girl, so rich in all generous feeling, became deep-thoughted as she had hitherto been warmhearted. For some time after her first discovery of the library, Catharine thought herself sure of solitude whenever she entered it. Once or twice she had heard soft footsteps creeping about the door, but after a moment’s attention forgot the circumstance. But one morning, while busy at her easel, working desperately toward the one object—a copy of her husband’s portrait—she heard the heavy breathing of some object outside the door, followed by a suppressed murmur. Catharine arose suddenly, and opened the door, holding her palette and brush in one hand. There in the hall, with her long, flowing night-dress lying around her like a snow-drift, sat Elsie, her dark, wild eyes turned wistfully toward the library, as Eve might have been supposed to crouch at the gates of Eden. With a timid motion of the hand she beckoned Catharine toward her, uttering a low hush with her lips. Catharine stepped out and bent over her, as she was seated on the floor. “Hush! hist!” whispered Elsie, lifting her finger with a look of affright. “Is he there? are they together? does he suspect that I am here in the cold, waiting? don’t tell him. I won’t come nearer, but it seems so hard to sit here all alone, and they in there. Please don’t tell them. Is he speaking to her? Does she say anything about me? She shouldn’t, it’s cruel. I carried off all the gray hairs, and the disgrace, and the heart-burn. They might let me stay here, you know.” The tone in which these words were uttered was so pleading and pitiful, the dark eyes, uplifted like those of a feverish child pleading for drink, had so much pathos in their glance, that Catharine felt tears trembling in her own voice, as she stooped down and endeavored to soothe the poor woman. “Come in—come sit with me, Elsie dear. They will be glad to see you,” she said, humoring the idea that possessed her charge. Elsie shook her head. “I couldn’t—it sets my heart afire to see him looking so kindly at her, and so cruelly at me. But listen: I was more beautiful than she is, once, and he thought so—he did, indeed, but somehow—I don’t understand how it was done—they made a division of God’s gifts, do you see. The beauty and love they left with her; to me, they gave age and tears, sinfulness, disgrace, hemp-jackets, and told me to go alone and be still. The evil spirit had been driven out from between them. They called it Elsie. Yes, they gave me her name, and told me to be gone. That is the reason I sit here on the floor, so cold and gray, while she enjoys herself in there. Don’t tell them, for I like to stay!”