Hagar did not altogether like Sophie’s insinuation of possessing the ability to manage her husband; it seemed to impair the _prestige_ of dignity by which her love had surrounded him; nevertheless she permitted her to leave the room, Sophie saying as she left, “I am his mamma, you know, Hagar! I have a right to interfere, especially since he has honored me with his confidence this morning; besides, he loves me dearly, and always did, ever since he knew me, and always will as long as we both live.” This was true; from the first moment of their acquaintance, Sophie, by her serene temperament, disinterested affections, and quiet wisdom, had gained, not an ascendency over his mind exactly, but a modified influence in his heart. She sought him out, and going to work in her calm, matronly manner, arranged the difficulty. The room occupied just now by herself and Captain Wilde was, after their departure, to be converted into a nursery, both upon account of its separation by the wide, central hall, from the apartments of Hagar and Raymond, and from its communication with the chamber of Rosalia, whose fear of sleeping alone, and whose love for the near neighborhood of the children and their nurse, combined to make the arrangement agreeable to her, as well as to others. The visitors remained a week after this. Gusty May had kept so close to his little lady love, in view of the impending separation, as to give others very little opportunity of cultivating her friendship. And as Rosalia was strongly attracted to the babies, and as Gusty was as strongly attracted to Rosalia, much of their time was passed in Hagar’s dressing-room. You should have seen them there in their innocent affection and familiarity, blending childlike frolic with droll, old-fashioned solicitude in their care of Hagar’s children. There Gusty would sit with Agnes across his knees, and a silk handkerchief spread over his arm, for fear the rougher broadcloth would irritate her cheek, chirruping to the infant, and calling himself “its Uncle Gusty;” and there Rosalia, with Agatha, whom she always would hold on her _own_ lap, because she persisted that this babe was the more delicate—yes! you _should_ have seen _her_, with her beautiful Virgin Mary face, brooding over the babe. And Gusty again! what an old granny he _did_ make of himself! feeling the baby’s fingers and toes, to see if they were warm enough, or cool enough, &c., &c., &c. One day Gusty’s heart was filling with a jest that was bubbling up to the corners of his mouth and eye, and leaking out of every crevice of his countenance. Agnes had gone to sleep in his arms—at last as he laid her in the crib, and while he was covering her up, his joke overflowed as he looked at the serene little madonna before him. “Don’t you wish these were _our_ babies, Rose?”