“Rosalia is yet too young, not quite seventeen, I believe; and Gusty not yet twenty—_both_ are too young; three years from the time of their engagement, that is two years hence, was the period assigned for their marriage, was it not?” “Yes,” said Hagar, still in thought. “That is, if the young lovers remained in the same mind?” “Yes,” said Hagar, and then, suddenly, she exclaimed, “You recollect these details better than I do; you have a good memory, Raymond.” “I always plead guilty to the charge, love.” Hagar fell deeper into thought, then sank into gloom. Was it the natural reaction of so much and such great excitement? Was it the rational sorrow at the thought of soon parting with Sophie, knowing her to be bound for a long and perilous sea voyage? Was it either or all these causes combined, that oppressed her heart and darkened her countenance? Reader, it was none of these things. A dread of the winsome beauty’s approach, a dread, not reasonable enough to justify her in opposing the measure—a dread for which she blamed herself, yet a dread that she could not shake off—a dread that fell dark on her brow, and struck cold to her bosom. A deep, up-piercing instinct; will it rise through the stages of doubt, suspicion, to jealousy in all its phrensy? The sin sown and nurtured by the wrongs of her neglected infancy, her besetting sin and sorrow—not dead, but long coiled in serpent-torpor in the bottom of her heart now revives, now rears its head. “Come, love, write your letter now before tea, so that it may go out in this evening’s mail,” were the words that aroused her from her abstraction, and she arose and left the room to do his bidding. * * * * * Immediately on rising the next morning, Hagar had, as usual, thrown on her dressing-gown and gone to the side of the crib to gaze upon her sleeping beauties. She bent over them in her morning beauty, with her black hair escaping from the little lace _coiffe de nuit_, and dropping in shining rings around her—she bent over them breathing her morning blessing, when her husband, having completed his toilet, came in and sank into an easy chair on the opposite side. He sat there looking at her very intently some minutes; at length he said, “Hagar, you are pale this morning.” “Am I?” “Yes, and you lose flesh daily.” “Do I?” “Do you not _perceive_ that you do?” “No, indeed, I never thought of it.” “No, you never thought of it, mind and body are alike absorbed, entirely absorbed by one object—the nursing of your children; flesh and beauty, health and life are leaving you unnoted, these children are killing you.” “These! these dear children, Raymond? Oh, do not bring such a charge against these sleeping innocents. They give me life and joy, the angels!”