The family met at breakfast the morning succeeding the events of the last chapter. The family—that is, with the exception of Rosalia, who had been spending a week at Grove Cottage, consoling Emily for the disappointment of losing her company for the winter, by remaining with her as long as possible, and indeed up to the day of the proposed departure. Hagar entered the breakfast-room, escorted, as usual, with the gentle and assiduous attention always given her, in public, by her husband. He led her to her place, and seated her with a graceful bow and sweet smile, and then assumed his own chair—smiling the morning salutation to Captain Wilde, who just entered the room. But Sophie looked at Hagar,—looked at her in astonishment. The spirited, springy little figure was almost languid, though she sat erect; the healthy crimson glow of her dark complexion had concentrated in a circumscribed purple spot on her cheek, leaving her contracted brow and quivering lip pallid; her strained glance expressed a mingled anguish and defiance. And then Sophie’s glance turned off from Hagar to Raymond; but his fine brow was perfectly smooth, his eyes smiling and his lips composed as he received the cup of coffee from the waiter held by Tarquinius. Sophie was so disturbed, upon the whole, that she could not eat her breakfast. This was the last day of their stay at Heath Hall. The packet that was to convey them to Baltimore was moored under the shadow of the promontory. Immediately after breakfast, both gentlemen left the house to superintend the removal of their baggage. Hagar arose from the table and went into the large old drawing-room, Sophie’s whilom school-room. Sophie, leaving her table in charge of the servants, followed her. She was walking uneasily about the floor, and seeing Sophie enter, she paused before the window. Sophie stole gently to her side, and passing her soft arms over the girl’s shoulder, stooped forward and looked seriously and lovingly into her anguished face, as she murmured in her low, sweet voice, “I must not ask you _now_, Hagar, my former question of ‘What is the matter between you and Raymond?’ but let me comfort you in some way. Oh, it is dreadful, indeed, my love, that you, a wife of scarcely two months—but I will say nothing of that—only I see,” said she, dropping her voice very low, “it is your _pride_, Hagar—don’t start, love, or repulse me, for you know we shall be separated very soon—it is your _pride_, love, that rebels against a rule every way gentle, just, and reasonable. Subdue it, Hagar. Your husband has been educated among the refinements of cultivated city society. He, himself, perhaps, among the most fastidious of that class. His taste is offended, his delicacy shocked by your wildness.” “He knew all this before. Why did he mar—”