Soon after the door was thrown quickly open, and Hagar sprang upon her cousin’s neck, half cutting her soft shoulders in the wire-like embrace of her slender arms, while the dark brow bent over the fair one, the blue-black ringlets glittered over the pale golden hair, and the deep carnation cheek met the pale, rose-tinted face an instant, and then she was released. “So, Hagar, you are married! dear me, how queer! is it not? Why, Hagar, you don’t look at all different, not a bit like a married woman.” And Rose got up and stood by her, and took her hand affectionately and looked up merrily in her face, “dear me, no! not at all like a married woman; Mrs. Withers! goodness! do they call you ‘Mrs. Withers,’ Hagar? and do you always remember to answer to that name—and how do you like being married, sure enough, Hagar—Mrs. Withers, I mean? Don’t turn your head away and crimson and darken so, while scorn and mirth gleam and flash from under your eye-lashes and upper lip; and don’t laugh—don’t _you_ laugh if I do; it is no laughing matter; I feel it so most of the time when I think of it. Oh, Hagar, my only sister that I ever knew, I do pray for your happiness morning and evening!” “Thank you.” “Now tell me about Raymond, he is young, handsome, graceful, accomplished, and all that; but tell me, is he _gentle_?” “_Gentle!_ why do you ask, Rosalia? _Gentle!_ I gave him my hand—that is your fit answer, dear.” “Yes, I know—I asked because—I may say it to you without blame now, Hagar—because his _father_ was not gentle, you know—and—and we sometimes love those who are not gentle with us, Hagar,” and her soft eyes were suffused. “Yes,” exclaimed Hagar, “and then there is even in seeming gentleness, sometimes gentle strength, gentle force, gentle firmness, more irresistible, more inevitably enslaving, than rudeness, roughness, violence could be,” and the dark girl’s soul half gleamed from her countenance like a dagger half-drawn from its sheath. “What do you mean, Hagar—dear Hagar, what do you mean?” “Nothing! I mean that it is time for you to dress and come down—and I mean that you must not ask me any more questions. Come, let me be your dressing-maid for once, and—but no matter, I fear I should make a failure in the essay,” and taking up a hand-bell, she rang it at the door. A negro girl came in, and with her assistance the toilet of Rosalia was soon made. Her golden hair was arranged in ringlets; her dress was a light blue silk; her fair neck and arms were bare, and adorned with a pearl necklace and bracelets. Hagar wore a black lace dress. Now, as Hagar clasped the last bracelet on her arm (she did that for her), standing with her before the mirror, nothing could have been more unlike in feminine beauty than these two girls. Hagar, so small, straight, dark, and sparkling—Rosalia so fair, soft, and gentle. “Come, now, let us go down into the drawing-room, Rose.”