“Raymond! oh, _do_ make up with me! I suffer _so_ much! _so_ much from the loss of your love! If I could _weep_ and expend a portion of my grief—if I could _swoon_ and lose consciousness of it—_sleep_ and forget it—_die_ and leave it—_go mad_ and defy it—I should suffer less! I can do _neither_—since I am not soft and weak! I am strong and hard—and the strong live through and suffer tortures that the weak would _die_ under, and so escape! Yet the weak have all the sympathy, while the sufferings of the strong are not credited because not manifested. Raymond! oh, make up with me. I shall—not _die_—but suffer more than death if you do not! I am exiled—take me home to your bosom—to my home in your bosom again, Raymond!” He supported her on his arm, and smiled down a flash of triumphant love into her face, lighting a smile in _her_ countenance, too! She raised her hand, passing it gently around his neck to the back of his golden head, and drew his face down to meet hers; but with a quick and graceful toss, waving all his curls, he released his head, and smilingly inquired, “And so you lay down your arms, and strike your colors, my beautiful rebel? You subscribe to all required articles in my treaty of peace? In a word, you will place confidence in my ability to take care of you, and follow my advice in the management of our children?” She did not reply. The smile faded from her countenance. He continued, “You will place our children where they can receive better care than you can possibly bestow upon them.” She opened her mouth to speak—he arrested her purpose by placing his hand softly and smilingly on her lips, as he whispered, “Stop!—no more arguments—no more controversy—no more talk about health, strength, and ability—about maternal love and duty—_not one word_, dearest! I did not bring you here, my beauty, for debate and opposition, but for harmony, love, and joy. So, in one word, Hagar, do you yield or maintain your opposition?—yes, or no.” “I cannot! cannot!” groaned Hagar. He raised his arm, slowly stretching it out from the shoulder, while he turned away his head, and gently, but firmly and steadily repulsed her, pushing her quite away, saying, calmly, as she sank upon the sofa— “Any overtures for a reconciliation, Hagar, must in future be prefaced by the unconditional surrender of this point.” And he leisurely sauntered from the room. Not one word was exchanged between them, from that moment until the next morning at the breakfast-table, when he said—“If you are not going to use the carriage, Hagar, I will send it to meet your relatives—it is nearly time for the morning boat to pass.” “I do not want it,” said Hagar, and the brief conversation dropped.