“Talk! oh! how can I help it, dearest Raymond, when my God-given life and love grows too strong for suppression? I have seen the emotions of other women escape in quiet tears of joy, but I am not given to tears, you know; there is too much fire in my composition—oh! how can I help talking, Raymond? I _must_ speak or consume, Raymond! Does not the horse neigh for joy when he feels his strong life—and what volumes of music, filling earth and sky, the little bird throws from his tiny chest for joy; the flowers bloom for joy; the trees _wave_ for joy; the streams _run_ for joy; the cataract leaps over its rocky precipice with a _shout_ of joy; nay, the _earth_—the earth _whirls_ around the sun in a reel of joy; and shall I, shall I with all this God-given life, this love, this joy, this gladness, this glory, kindling, burning, and glowing, striking up from my bosom—shall I suppress it? turning back to cold silence and ingratitude? No, Father. No, angels. No, husband. No, children. You shall _hear_ how happy I am in the worship of joy!—in the worship of joy!” You might see the fire of her ardent soul, as the flame glowed upon her lips, wavered over her crimson cheek, and shot in radiant glances from her eyes, as she spoke; now gazing with rapt inspiration on her children; now turning, and fervently embracing her husband, with a _pure_, though passionate love! “You would make a good camp-meeting subject, love,” said he, smiling. “Oh, Raymond, _now_ I understand the enthusiasm of camp-meetings; the ecstasy of conversion. Say they sometimes fall, or seem to fall, from grace, from bliss; why that is human, that is natural; the spring sometimes backslides into winter for days, yet we do not upon that account deny the presence of spring, or the approach of summer; both seasons, summer to the year, sanctification to the soul—with all impediments, all relapses and collapses; all weaknesses and falls; all wanderings and retrogradings—still advance—on! and up! under the guidance of Divinity.” “You are strangely changed, Hagar—not in your individuality, but in your proportions—from the positive of wild to the superlative of wildest.” “I am not wilder. Oh, Raymond! my life is deeper, higher, broader, fuller—for these children, for these messengers from Heaven. Let my heart sing its song of joy. Oh, Raymond! when we are _un_happy, even when we ourselves have brought the unhappiness upon us, the calmest of us cry out in tones of grief, bitterness, and reproach, ‘God! God!’ and no one complains of its extravagance! Shall we not, when we are blessed and happy, sing in tones of grateful rapture, ‘God! God!’” “You must be quiet, love! be calm. I just looked in to bid you good morning before going out. Shall you be able to come down into the drawing-room this evening?” “Yes,” replied Hagar, softly, and half abstractedly. * * * * *