“But you have a traitor in your bosom that continually betrays you; or rather, I should say, your husband holds your heart-strings in his hand. You love him—yes, Hagar, _him_ only, of all the world! You do not love me, or anybody else. From infancy the stream of your affections has run in one deep and narrow channel. Let that be checked, and the waves, turned to flame, will roll back upon your heart consuming it. Why, see, Hagar, see! when your wills clash, your pride is in arms—you oppose him, defy him, and he meets such defiance with a calm, quiet strength, not yielding an inch, and you suffer, as you are suffering now. Why suffer, Hagar? Tame that wild heart of yours. Hagar, the great secret of the power he possesses over you is this: he is calm, while you are impetuous—he can control _himself_, and thereby _you_—he can stifle, as you can not, that ‘mighty hunger of the heart,’ that craves a return of love—he can look coldly, sternly on you for days, weeks, while his very soul wails for your love. You cannot do this yourself, or bear it from him long; in a word, dear Hagar, you have neither might nor right on your side.” During all this speech Hagar had been standing with her face to the window, with her eyes burning and burning through the glass, and Sophie had been standing by her side with her arm around her waist caressingly. “Come, Hagar!” she whispered low, “let me confide to you some of my own feelings,” and while she spoke she slightly smiled, her voice slightly quivered as with bashfulness or happiness, and the rose clouds rolled up over her cheeks, and even flushed her brow,—“I love my husband so much, so much, so much, with a fulness of tenderness that it seems to me could not be expressed, except by suffering something—sacrificing something for his sake. I am sure sometimes I wish he would ask me to do something naturally repugnant to my feelings, that I might have one opportunity of showing him how much I do love; to give up my very dearest wish for his pleasure would give me exquisite joy—a joy that I crave. I do not comprehend this, dear, but so it is.” “Oh, _I_ comprehend it, Sophie, perfectly; it is the very same principle that led the saints ages ago to scourge and starve themselves to testify their love to God—God forgive them the blasphemy! You, Sophie, have a propensity to worship, and a very decided vocation for martyrdom, which, unfortunately, under existing circumstances, _I_ have not!” sneered the scornful girl. Sophie’s brow was crimson now, and the tears swam in her eyes an instant, and she remained silent. At last she said,