would be writing or reading, or in any other manner occupied so as to prevent conversation, she would sit upon the corner of the sofa, and veiling the splendid fire of her eyes under their long lashes, gaze upon his form or face, watching its varying expression with all the enthusiasm of an artist, with all the inspiration of a poet, with all the adoration of a devotee, with all the love of a woman, a silent and unnoticed but enraptured worshipper! At such times, carried away, she would not think of herself at all—at other times a painful feeling or fancy of self-deficiency would torture her. All who love, who worship, think more or less humbly of themselves—this feeling is often morbid in excess or irrationality, and often itself engenders jealousy. In Hagar this was natural—she was not in her own estimation a tithe so handsome or _accomplished_ as Raymond, and in the same proportion that she adored his perfections she depreciated her own attractions. For him she desired to possess all the gifts of beauty and genius, that she might meet and supply the wants of his being at every avenue, that she might be the whole world to him, as he undoubtedly was the whole universe to her. To her every face looked mean, expressionless, or sensual, compared to his glorious countenance, in which every passion, malign or benign, became godlike! to her every tone was harsh and rough, or flat and dull, compared to his love-tuned voice—he was her music, her poetry, her love, her religion, her life, soul, and final destiny—her spirit sought unison with his spirit, ardently, impetuously; she knew in heaven, their redeemed souls would blend in one—in heaven they would be—_one angel_. Call this morbid, call this extravagant, reader, yet acknowledge that it was no _sudden_ passion, that this intense love of one ardent soul had been growing from the moment that the beautiful youth had lifted the little ugly infant to his knee, and thenceforth become her adoration, her idol, her dream of heaven. This passion had increased with years, every circumstance had only served to augment it, association and absence, meeting and parting, until their marriage, and then all the requirements of his regal will, all the sacrifices of her own wishes, all the struggles of her independence before it was subdued, all the death throes of her mighty pride before it was annihilated, served but to draw tighter, to rivet faster the chains that bound her heart to _his_; her separate soul, will, individuality of which she had boasted in her haughtiness, fled to him, cleaved to him, seemed blissfully, divinely lost in him—in heaven they would be one angel, that was her love, hope, faith, religion, her conception of heaven. Call it insanity, reader! many minds that pass for sane have in a greater or a less degree their insanity, in other words their master passion, or their besetting sin, or both in one.