“Yes, love, yes—but you have asked me that question every few days for the last month, and I have always answered you in the same words; when they grow ugly, love, I will tell you.” Hagar’s eyes were again turned on her children—her soul was again bathing them with love. “Shall I not have to grow jealous of these little girls, who take up so much of your time and thoughts, love?” “Jealous of these children? of these children who make me love you?” exclaimed Hagar, embracing him fervently. “Oh! my husband! so much more than ever I loved you before! they have deepened and widened my love. Ah, my own! my own Raymond—_try_ my love now, and see how much stronger its texture is—it will bear a great deal of pulling now, Raymond—ask me to give up anything _now_, Raymond, and see if I make a fuss about my pride and dignity—my pride! as if I could set up a separate establishment of pride—and my dignity, as if I could not trust it in your keeping, Raymond, dear Raymond!—as if I _could_ have a separate interest or a separate will—but you loved the unblessed maiden—will you not love more, a great deal more, the blessed mother—say, Raymond! say!” Her ardent soul, inspired by her passionate affections, was kindling into exalted enthusiasm, and glowing through all the features of her beautiful face; breaking through and bearing down all screens of reserve or pride. “Say, Raymond! say! oh, I love you so much now—I crave such a fulness of return—say, Raymond! say, how much more than the unblessed maiden do you love the doubly blessed mother?” “My Hagar!” said he, softly, “try to be calm, love; moderate your enthusiasm, get used to your joy; these children have been with you long enough for that.”